


Sleeping at Last

by VixPhilia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cullen Has Issues, but we love him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-07-19 02:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7341016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VixPhilia/pseuds/VixPhilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haven's downfall is still fresh on their minds, but Cullen is taking the blow particularly hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Same Dream

The tower is dark and humid, the stone walls perpetually cold, and he wonders if summer will ever come.   

His feet ache from a full day of duty and his back feels like it belongs in a body much older than his, but he doesn't complain. Days in the Circle are much more gray than they used to be, but he doesn't complain about that either: his heart had learned long ago how to live after a goodbye.  

His breastplate is the first to go, and he takes his first full breath of the day, chest expanding and shoulders rolling without the weight of the armor. Beside him, his fellow Templars are already long asleep; his tired body had led him to the Chantry before his mind could settle for the day, so he is the only awake when Drass comes barreling in, a terrified look on his face.  

Abominations.  

And then he knows pain. Blinding, white, scorching pain, breaking his body slowly, unrelenting. And when his body breaks, they try to take his mind.  

He prays, he begs. He watches his friends, his charges, his mentors, succumb one by one, and he sees it in their eyes - sees it in that brief last second before they are gone forever: relief.  

And, Maker, he wants it desperately as well.  

And yet, as his body begs for release, his mind refuses to give in. Fragmented thoughts of home come to him, of warm grass and humid dirt, of Rosie's giggle and Mia's smug looks over a chess board, of Bran wanting to play Templars and Mages, eyes sparkling with devoted affection for his big brother. He thinks of days spent training and studying and praying, of strength wrapped in a blue bottle, thinks of life with a purpose, a life of piousness and discipline and quiet contentment.  

He tries not to think about young, sweet eyes that looked at him with equal amounts of distrust and fear, and how that would tear at his heart every time they would meet his across the apprentice library. He tries not to think how he felt when he realized that he would not waver - though his heart would weep - in his task come her Harrowing. Tries to forget how that made him a better Templar at the expense of being a better man. And that it was because of this realization that he had found within himself the strength to deny her, when she finally touched him.  

But, though he tries and tries, the torture on his mind persists, demands his sanity, his memories, his desires. It claws at his soul, turns him inside out until he wants to scream and cry and give up. His body begs him to hurl himself into the darkness at last.  

But he never does.  

He's never fully sure that he has awoken, his mind still wrapped around the terrors even while his body lurches from bed, sweating and burning and trembling.  He rubs his eyes forcefully, a headache already pulsing in the center of his forehead, his muscles taut and spent. And he sighs.  

He drags his tired body towards the small bathtub in the corner of his bedroom, the cold water punishing but serving its purpose to awaken him further. The day still hasn't fully dawned, but he is already donning his armor and heading downstairs to his office, where an infinite amount of paperwork already awaits him.  

Outside, Skyhold begins to stir.  

\--------- 

Haven's downfall is still fresh on everyone's minds, but Cullen is taking the blow particularly hard.  

As someone who left home so young, he has always had an easy time adjusting to new places: if there was a roof over his head, relative shelter from the elements and a mission to focus on, he was content.  

The monastic refuge in Bournshire where he first trained was warm and decent, full of loud, eager children and stern, impersonal caretakers. They were young, yes, but they were Templars-to-be, future protectors of the people and holy warriors, and there was pride in that. Older than most initiates, there was much catching up for Cullen to do, and little time to dwell upon how he missed the comforting noise of his siblings and loving protectiveness of his parents. 

Kinloch Hold was cold and grey and a little bit scary at first, but the work was noble. He was finally serving the Maker, helping those in need, overseeing the mages. He was a Templar. The lyrium coursing through his veins made strong and alert and invincible, and home was the last thing is his mind-- especially  _after_. 

And then Kirkwall managed to be even grayer and even colder, but by then he only slept when his exhausted body refused to function any longer, and even then only briefly. There were abominations to deal with, and apostates to hunt. He thought his family wouldn't even recognize him anymore, there was so little of him left. 

But  _Haven_. 

Maker, Haven felt like a new beginning. The nightmares were worse, his mind wasn't as sharp, his body felt weak... but waking up in that startling chilly mornings to the sounds of mages and Templars arriving from every corner of Ferelden, side by side to try and negotiate peace was... _exhilarating_. There was hope, there was unity. And while it did not last, the aftermath of the Breach still managed to bring something good: a purpose he could be proud of again. 

Haven was beginning to feel  _familiar._  

And then it all ended. The Herald stayed behind to face Corypheus, giving them a chance to survive; and while he had promised her to lead their people to safety, he could feel his heart breaking apart. Everything he'd came to care about was staying behind in that small village, and he wasn't even strong enough to defend her.  

To defend  _it,_ is what he means _._  

Still, a small part of him has to admit that when the Herald managed to claw her way out of the grips of certain death and found her way towards them, well, his heart started to mend a little bit too.  

When he sees Skyhold looming on the horizon for the first time, after days and days of seemingly endless wandering, he is left dazed. The castle is imposing and ancient and Cullen is not sure they will ever learn all its secrets. But then they cross the arched bridge, and the portcullis at the gatehouse opens like it was only waiting for them to arrive... and everybody starts to find their little corner of refuge. 

There is still much work to be done, of course: there are broken walls and caved in ceilings, floors that open into the frozen abyss below. But there is also Solas heading straight to the atrium and setting camp as if he had always belonged there and Dorian getting lost among the books in the library. Leliana finding a dominant, yet secluded point of view in the rookery and Josephine trying to turn her office into something fit for receiving the nobles. There is the Iron Bull single-handedly cleaning the tavern-- though it probably has more to do with wanting it back on business as soon as possible than with helping renovations. There is Sera going through abandoned rooms and finding treasures and trinkets, cackling with glee at some long discarded noble's smalls. Varric pulling up a chair near the fireplace and draining his flask dry in one gulp and Cassandra destroying every practice-dummies she can lay her hands on, as they both try to come to terms with what they faced at Haven. There is Madame de Fer looking down at them from her perch in the Throne Room, as though to remind them of her power and influence, and Blackwall hiding himself in the stables among the horses, like he was not worthy to even enter the castle. They seek familiarity in change, a safe place to help weather the dark days ahead. 

So Cullen sets up camp in the courtyard, right at the gatehouse entrance, overseeing the refugees’ arrival and allies, establishing guard duties and night patrol schedules, inspecting the settlement on the base of the mountain, reviewing supply orders, coordinating scout missions... 

Skyhold is large, and defensible and...  _Maker_ , perhaps it's a new chance to get it right.  

He's just finishing with the arrangements for temporary quarters for the soldiers when he sees her approaching. 

The _Inquisitor_. 

His heart swells with pride at the memory of her proclamation. She looked so small next to that absurd sword, so worried... as if she could ever fail them.  Couldn't she see that she had already saved them? So he drew his own sword and rallied the people and tried to show her that she would prevail. She would lead them and they would follow her anywhere willingly and devotedly, whether victory was in sight or not. Because the important thing was that they were  _fighting_ , they were  _trying_ , and that they wouldn't give up.  

And as he introduced her as their leader, he could see her gathering her strength  _for them_ , and she raised that sword high with pride. 

He thought his heart would leave his chest and follow her. 

She accepted the role gracefully, and immediately turned to strategizing their next steps. She called up a meeting before they had even entered the Main Hall, and he could see the weight of the responsibility on her shoulders. But she wouldn't bear it alone, and he would do his utmost best to ensure that they would triumph. 

So when she finds him in the courtyard, he immediately starts to apologize for not being able to defend Haven, for not being  _prepared enough_ , for almost killing her... but she interrupts him with a gentle "Do you ever sleep?", and he can't even  _look_ at her, at how worried she seems about him, of all people.  

"If Corypheus strikes again, we may not be able to withdraw... and I wouldn't want to." He would help her prevail, or he would die trying. They would not run. "We must be ready." 

"How many were lost?" She asks bluntly, and he knows that she blames herself for every single casualty, as if she hadn't almost given her life to defend them all.  

"Most of our people made it to Skyhold. It could have been worse," he says, and that is the understatement of the ages, isn't it? "Though morale improved greatly since you accepted the role of Inquisitor." 

"Inquisitor Aderyn Lavellan," she smirks, "It sounds odd, don't you think?" 

"Not at all," he says, and he can't think of anybody more suited the role. Or more worthy. 

"Is that the official response?" she says, eyebrows raised, and he can't help but laugh at her skeptical face. 

"I suppose it is. But it's the truth," he says, finally gathering the courage to face her, and the doubt he sees in her eyes tear at him. How could she doubt her own strength, her compassion, her courage? "We needed a leader. You have proven yourself." 

"Everyone has so much faith in my leadership," she sighs, shoulders sagging, and he can see how tired she looks, how her easy smiles and lively demeanor hide a weariness that wasn't there in Haven. "I hope I'm ready." 

He wants to touch her, to reassure that she has done more for them than she could ever realize, that the people looked up to her as a leader and inspiration and as a source of hope... and, yes, he sees how that would be terrifying. "You won't have to carry the Inquisition alone, although it must feel like it," he finally says. "We are here to help you." 

"Thank you, Cullen," she says, her name rolling off of her tongue with so much tenderness, that he doesn't know what to do with his desperately beating heart and dopey smile. "Our escape from Haven... it was close. I'm just relieved that you--" she sighs, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "That _so many_  made it out." 

"As am I," he says. Maker, it was practically a  _miracle_ that so many had made it here. A miracle that they were alive, that  _she_  was alive and well and standing right next to him. And then she turns to leave, eyes big and sad, and the impulse to just  _touch_ her wins over his best judgement, his hands reaching for hers. "You stayed behind. You could have--" his voice cracks, throat dry and aching with the weight of the ' _what if'_. "I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word," he vows, willing her to believe him, and the small smile she bestows him in response warms his very core.  

"It will be alright," she says, squeezing his hand, and it only now registers that he is still holding on to her, in the middle of Skyhold's inner courtyard, with his runners and soldiers moving all around them. He immediately lets her hand go, and she smiles knowingly. "I should probably go." 

"I'm sure you have other matters to attend," he says, as she gracefully runs up the stairs the leads to the upper courtyard. His gaze stays on her until she disappears into the Throne room, and then he hears someone clearing their throat beside him. " _What?_ " he grumbles, turning to face the young runner. The boy-- Jim, Cullen recalls, and didn't he just sent him to the armories? –stammers "Nothing, sir," before resuming... standing there as Cullen tries to focus on the pile of work in front of him for the rest of the day. 

He spends the first couple of nights sleeping on a cot near the wounded, restlessly wondering if that was the night they would see that dragon tearing the skies to get them, Corypheus and the Red Templars following behind. It's only the healer's worried face after he wakes up screaming from yet another nightmare that finally drives him into seeking a place of his own, if only to not disturb her charges. 

The wall towers are deserted, ruined furniture strewn everywhere amidst the collapsed ceilings, so Cullen doesn't think anyone will mind when he chooses the one closest to the gatehouse. It is in shambles, but the walls look stable, and there's a loft above it for him to throw a cot on. It would definitely do.  

Besides, if Corypheus ever tries to take Skyhold, he'd have to go through him first. 

 

\----------

He’s just leaving the War Room, arms full of requisitions to approve, when he sees Aderyn and Josephine talking about the political situation in the Orlesian empire. The Ambassador is in the middle of a passionate speech about the dangers of snotty nobles, and he has to stifle a tired sigh as he approaches them. “Everything in the Empire complicates matters, it’s the Orlesian national pastime,” he says, and is rewarded by an amused smile from Aderyn.

Leliana is less amused, though, arriving quietly from the shadows to tell him off, “Turn your nose upon the Grand Game if you like, Commander. But we play for highest stakes, and we play to the death.”

He sometimes wonders if Leliana overplays the drama for his benefit; It takes all his willpower to restrain the impulse to roll his eyes at her.

“The court’s disapproval can be as great a threat as the Venatori,” Josephine adds, and that parallel is _also_ a little extreme in his mind. “We must be vigilant to avert disaster.”

Thankfully, Aderyn seems to agree with him, “How is it more dangerous than usual?” she asks, rolling her eyes. “From what little I gathered, Orlesians thrive on intrigue.”

“The empress is in the middle of a civil war. Her cousin, Gran-Duque Gaspard, seeks to take her throne by force,” Josephine explains. “It can destabilize the foundations of the entire empire, even if his plan is unsuccessful.”

“My reports indicate that a group of elves have been sabotaging both armies, drawing out the hostilities,” Leliana adds. “Orlais holds Tevinter at bay. All of Thedas could be lost if the empire falls to Corypheus.”

“Celene is holding peace talks under the auspices of a Grand Masquerade.” Josephine says, and he notices the slight excitement on her voice, though the ambassador makes a show of holding back a smile. “Every power in Orlais will be there. It’s the perfect place for an assassin to hide.”

He has to admit that she does have a point. A room full of pampered drunk nobles playing a childish game with ridiculously high stakes? It’s a recipe for political disaster.

“So how are you going to get me into this ball?” Aderyn asks. “I don’t think the dalish elf with the sparkly green hand is very high on their guest list.”

“ _Au contraire_ ,” Leliana smirks, and the satisfied look on her face makes his headache pound that much harder. “I have it on good authority that you are on the lips of everybody who is anybody at the Capital.”

“This only makes the Inquisitor a more visible target,” he states. “This doesn’t bode well for a stealthy rogue mission--”

“Which is why this won’t be a rogue mission,” Josephine interrupts, and Maker, he knows where this is going. Please, let him be wrong. “We are going to attend the Masquerade as the Inquisition,” she finishes and he groans. Fuck.

“A diplomatic mission, you mean,” Aderyn surmises. “That should be fun,” she says, sounding anything but.

Josephine smiles as though she has everything planned—which she most definitely already does, “I’ll arrange for an invitation at your discretion, Inquisitor,” she says, and he sighs before taking his leave. He’s just opened the door when he hears Josephine add, characteristically exuberant, “And I’ll have the perfect outfits for all of us!”

 _Maker_.

\----------

He finds Cassandra tearing a practice dummy apart with her sword, and he considers turning back and coming back at another time, but the Seeker spots him before he can leave. Her eyes soften somewhat, and he knows he must look awful. "Am I disturbing you? I can come back later."  

She shakes her head, running a hand through her sweaty forehead, "What do you need?" 

"I haven't received the full reports on the final battle at Haven yet," he says. "If we are to have any hope of surviving another attack, I need to make sure--" But she interrupts him again, with a surprisingly gently hand on his forearm. 

"Cullen, we will prevail. I know you somehow feel responsible for what happened, but you're not. You said it yourself: Haven was no fortress. We did what we could." 

He knows better than to argue with  _Cassandra_ , but his shaking hands speak louder than he ever could anyway, and her hand on his arm tightens. "You think that it would have made a difference if you had come with us to that final battle. It would not," she says resolutely, "We fought with everything we had, and you led the people to safety. They wouldn't be here if not for you." 

He knows that. He also knows that, as the Commander of the Inquisition's forces, he should have been there with Cassandra, Varric and Dorian as they came face to face with Corypheus. He should have been there with  _her._  

Most importantly, he knows that, on the day before the attack on Haven, he was hiding in his tent, sweating lyrium from every pore, trembling madly. He knows that while he was leading his forces to the Breach, his hand still shook slightly when he raised his sword. 

He  _knows_  he would have been a liability.  

Of course, Cassandra seems to read his mind, shaking her head with a frown. "It was a difficult battle, and we all gave our best. Nothing would change that," she says, resolutely. But then she sighs, side eyeing him speculatively, before asking, "Have you told her?" 

And that is the crux of the matter, isn't it? He  _should_  tell her. Should tell her immediately. Should've had told her already, in fact. The Inquisitor should be aware that her Commander may not function well at all times. May have days when he cannot leave the bed. Might just end up losing his mind. 

The Inquisitor has to be informed of all that. He just doesn't want  _Aderyn_ to know. 

"Not yet," he says, lowering his eyes shamefully.  

Cassandra grunts a noise of disapproval, before reaching for her sword again, "Will you?" 

"Of course." 

The Seeker swings the sword on the dummy's flank, and Cullen takes this as his cue to leave. Before he can take two steps, though, Cassandra calls his name softly, "Tell her, Cullen," she says. "She might surprise you," and she looks at him like  _she knows_ , and, Maker, if Cassandra can see through him, could  _Aderyn_? So he just nods, his hands rubbing his neck raw.  

He walks back to his office and finds a messenger waiting near his desk. “I believe this is yours, Commander,” she says with a troubled look on her face, a piece of crumpled parchment is her hands. “It is addressed to you.”

“Who is it from?”

“I don’t-” she begins, shaking her head at a loss. “It was in my hand.”

The note is weathered, and it smells like… wet dog? He shakes his head, dismissing the befuddled messenger with a quiet thank you, as he opens the wrinkled paper: _Your life is not the song; you are more._


	2. Model Citizen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s not blinding. I can’t hear its heartbeat in you any longer. And that’s good. There should only be your heartbeat in there, anyway. That’s better."

 

It is not yet dawn when the nightmare forces him awake, his hands grasping the damp covers desperately, as if they could anchor him to reality. His body is drenched in sweat, burning with fatigue, his throat raw and parched. The tub beckons him and he holds his head under the icy water until his lungs scream, until he is shivering and miserable, but confident he is awake. He throws a clean shirt and trousers on, and only barely remembers to put his over coat as he leaves his office.

Outside, the keep is silent in the coat of darkness: the tavern is mostly empty, the merchants have not yet awakened and it’s still too early for the cooks to begin their service. There are guards going through their patrol duties, but they only nod at him in passing before going about their business, used as they are to the Commander haunting the battlements at odd hours.

He has just arrived at the door of the tower over the tavern, and is debating whether to turn back or to complete a full sweep of the walls when he sees her: Aderyn is sitting on the railing of her balcony, back supported against the wall, one leg inside and the other swinging above the chasm below. Her eyes are lost at the horizon, and he can see her shivering despite their distance. He is about to alert a soldier to go to her, when she sees him and her face breaks into a careful smile as she gives him a little wave. His apprehension at her precarious position prevents him from waving back— before he can break into desperate cold sweats, though, she gracefully steps down to the safety of her terrace.

He is about to take a bow and return to his office, when she motions to the main entrance, an invitation clear. And, really, he would do anything to get her out of that high balcony and closer to safe ground, so he nods and heads towards the main hall.

“You really never do sleep, do you, Commander?” she asks with a soft smile when they meet just past the imposing double doors. He can see a nearby soldier start to shake his head in a tongue-in-cheek answer, and he levels the recruit an annoyed glance.

“I slept just fine, thank you. What of your rest?” he asks, directing her away from the entrance and towards an empty table by the fireplace.

Aderyn hums vaguely, as she sits, scrubbing a hand over her tired eyes. She looks exhausted, her ponytail loosened and askew, and he is suddenly aware of his own still damp hair curling around its edges. “Would you believe I was in Haven a few minutes ago?” Out of all the things she could say, this was the strangest, and he wonders if the nightmares are hounding her as well.

“It’s understandable to dream about it after…” he begins, but she shakes her head.

“No, it wasn’t a dream,” she says vaguely, a frown marring her forehead and he is mesmerized by the effect it has on the delicate tattoos there. “I—I think I was in the fade. With Solas.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He has to admit that he has not always seen eye-to-eye with the strange apostate; his aggrandized speeches and humble lone-wandering-hobo persona didn’t sit right with Cullen, an incongruous combination that left him wary of the elf’s intentions.

There was also the fact that Aderyn seemed to be getting closer to Solas ever since he had showed her the way to Skyhold: they had spent quite a bit of the strenuous walk to the fortress apart from the larger following, heads huddled close together in private conference.   

Not that he was watching them, of course.

“We were talking about the breach, like we did hundreds of times before, but this time…”

“This time--?” he prods at her faraway look.

She eyes him contemplatively, before shrugging. “I don’t know. Maybe it was me. I was teasing him over feeling worried about me—he is always so solemn and impenetrable.” Ah, yes. The allure of the mystery. How could anyone compete with that? Specially not Cullen himself, with his boring and straightforward approach of life. A soldier through and through, and a damaged one at that. He is so lost in this disheartening trail of thought that he almost misses when she faintly adds, “I think he tried to kiss me.”

“ _He kissed you?_ ” he asks surprised, and he only notices his voice had risen in alarm when the soldier at the door glances over at them in worry. “Solas kissed you?” he asks again, lower this time, and he is sure the flush taking over his face is embarrassment as much as it is protectiveness.

“No!” she shakes her head, one hand coming to rest on his arm over the table. “He _tried_ to. I think.”

“Oh.”

He has seen the way people look at her. Solas, Blackwall, the countless unnamed recruits. There is devotion in their eyes, yes, but there is also _desire_.

They have people coming from every corner of Thedas: Orlesians and Feraldans and Nevarrans all sitting at the same table as comrades at arms, all because they believe she is blessed by the Maker—or misguidedly deem her to be Holy herself. They want to be near her, to fight for her, to die for her… He just didn’t think any of them would be presumptuous enough to actually act on their desires without her consent.

“I had kissed him on the cheek in thanks for all his help, but he pulled me close. I turned my face at the last minute, but--” she says, a blush taking over her delicate features, from the tip of her pointed nose to the tips of her pointed ears. “I think I unconsciously led him on.”

“You cannot possibly think an unwanted kiss could ever be your fault,” he says with a firm shake of his head. He is not quite sure why she is having this conversation with him of all people—surely she has no lack of friends here. He has noticed her attachment to Cassandra, and as unlikely as their friendship seemed at first, he knows that the two women have more in common than even they knew. Aderyn was also very friendly with Dorian, and Cullen had found the two of them innumerous times in the Library, huddled together over a dusty book and giggling over one thing or another. Moreover, Aderyn was sociable to _everybody_ : be it drinking with The Iron Bull at the Tavern, helping Blackwall and Master Dennet tend to the horses, or having a friendly discussion over tea with Madame de Fer, Josephine and Leliana, she always seemed at ease with most people at Skyhold. Certainly, she has someone to share this new development with.

Besides, if Cullen is being truthful to himself, there is also the fact that some small part of him is not sure he could bear to hear about her affections for the elf.

Still, she is obviously in need of someone to share this, and, for whatever reason, she chose him.

He will endure it.

She is still studying him carefully, and he realizes he’s been quiet for a while. “Did you—did you _want_ to kiss him?” he stammers feebly. “I mean…”

“No,” she answers, and he can see she blushing as well, her hand tightening on his arm. “Creators, no. How can I think about _kissing_ anybody when the world is ending out there?” she says and he is sickened with the force of the relief that rushes through his body. “Right?” she asks, eyes big and clear and looking right at him.

“Right,” he rasps.

The creak of the side door opening for one the cooks makes them jump apart, and it is only then that he realizes they were leaning towards each other slowly. “I—I should go get ready for the day,” he says standing up, and her hands slide from his arm to grasp his hand.

“Your hands are cold,” she says, as she uses him as support to rise from her seat, and he can’t help pulling his hand from hers in a startled reflex, unconsciously taking a step backwards. “Cullen…” she murmurs, her face falling with the abruptness of the action.

“I really should go, My Lady,” he says, moving backwards towards the Atrium and hiding his hands under a tight fist. Solas probably won’t be there at this early hour, and if he is and Cullen wakes him up, then so be it. It is the shortest way to his office, after all.

“All right,” she says tentatively. “Thank you for listening.”

“At your service, Inquisitor” he says, before he closes the door behind him. He crosses the room without running into Solas—thank the Maker for small favors—and stumbles towards his office. At the bridge, he can see Master Dennet starting his morning routine of feeding the horses, and Blackwall pulling water from the well. Dawn has arrived, cold and brisk, and he has a million things demanding his attention.

But he just groans in exhaustion before climbing upstairs and throwing himself back on his rumpled, damp bed. For a moment, he wonders if he had even left this room at all; if he hadn’t hallucinated the whole unlikely conversation with the Inquisitor—about _kissing_ , of all things.

Has he lost his mind already?

He rubs his face angrily, but the feel of his icy fingers pressing on his eyes only manage to make him even more distressed, a stark reminder of his lyrium withdrawal.

_He has to tell her._

\-----------  

He manages to stay away for a whole week; barring their regular meetings at the War Table, he maintains his distance. It’s not as if he has to try too hard, though: Aderyn is everywhere at once, greeting newcomers, talking with her inner circle, helping the repairs at Skyhold… but conspicuously absent from his office. He has to wonder if she isn’t staying away from him as well.

It’s late in the afternoon when she finally comes to his office, footsteps quiet and unsure, with a soft, “You missed lunch again.”

He didn’t know she was keeping track of him, but it shouldn’t surprise him—she always tried her best to help everybody in need. Still, he is dismayed she has noticed both his avoidance tactics, and his increased lack of appetite. “There has been a lot of work, Inquisitor.”

“I realize that. But you have to take care of yourself,” she says, placing a container on his desk and pushing it towards him. “I asked the head-cook to make something for you,” she says and he doesn’t know how to respond—embarrassment and tenderness warring inside him, and he is not sure is he should apologize or thank her. “I’ll leave you to it,” she sighs when he doesn’t say anything in response, but the thought of going another week—another second—without talking to her, spurs him into action.

“Actually, I’ve just received an important field report on a Red Lyrium lead. I was going to wait until tomorrow at the War Room, but if you have the time?” he starts, surprising himself with the abruptness of the request.

“Of course,” she says, crossing her arms attentively. “Anything to help.”

“I found where the Red Templars come from: Therinfal Redoubt,” he explains, the importance of the report outweighing his embarrassment. “Samson took over after corrupting the knights with Red Lyrium.”

“How _do_ you know Samson?” she asks gently, leaning on his desk.

He really doesn’t want to get into his associations with Samson, but the importance of the intel to the Inquisition far outweighs his past demons. “Samson and I shared quarters when I arrived in Kirkwall. He seemed liked a decent young man... until he was expelled from the Order for aiding mages. He ended up begging on Kirkwall’s streets. I knew he was an _addict_ , but this…”

Addiction was a powerful drive, and the body would do anything to satiate that dreadful, beautiful song.

“But why would he join Corypheus?” she asks, and he has to remind himself she doesn’t _know_ , couldn’t possibly know the effects of addiction on a mind. 

“He had a chronic lyrium addiction,” he starts, remembering nights when he was awakened by Raleigh’s whimpers and screams, days when the man shook and sweltered, begging the walls for increased lyrium rations.

That rainy day in Lowtown crosses his mind unbidden, but Cullen shakes himself from the memory before continuing, “He spent every last coin buying it from local smugglers. He would do _anything_ to get a fix, and it took a heavy toll him. Perhaps Corypheus offered him purpose as well as lyrium. Perhaps that’s all it took,” he rubs his forehead angrily, and he can almost feel the humid heat of Kirkwall pressing on his neck, could almost fell the sweat coating his body under the heavy Templar armor. He could have helped Samson then. He should have helped.

“It sounds like he had a miserable life,” Aderyn frowns, and Cullen just _knows_ that if she had crossed paths with Samson in the alleys of Lowtown, she wouldn’t have hesitated in helping him.

Still, having a miserable life was no excuse for helping an ancient Darkspawn in tearing the world apart. Maker knows there were no shortage of miserable lives during those days.

“Samson had choices,” Cullen states, because, if anything, he _has_ to believe in this: that if he had been in Samson’s shoes, he would have chosen a different path for himself, addiction or not. “Succumbing to red lyrium is bad enough; but willfully submitting his fellow Templars to it?” he frowns in disgust, the image of the atrocities that used to be fellow Templars burned into him mind. “Red lyrium is nothing like the lyrium given by the Chantry. Its power comes with terrible madness. We cannot allow them to gain strength.” If the blue variety already had the power to bend them to their knees, the red one was death. Pure and simple.

“We won’t,” she states in a steady voice, and it’s only then that he realizes his own voice had been rising in his revolt. He takes a calming breath before continuing, “The Red Templars still require lyrium. If we find their source, we can weaken them and their leader.”

“Okay. So where do we begin?” she asks, and her conviction of the fact that he already has a plan in motion warms him.

He informs her about the report he received on smuggling caravans in the Dales. “If you do confront them, be wary—everything connected to Samson will be well guarded.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” she smiles, and when he doesn’t say anything in response, her smile falters slightly. “I should go,” she says hesitantly, pointing over her shoulder at the door, and the knowledge that he was _once more_ the one responsible for her sudden reticence tears at him.

“Actually, I have been meaning to talk to you about something important,” he says, and she turns surprised eyes at him. “As leader of the Inquisition… there’s something I must tell you,” he sighs, pushing the food she brought to the corner of the desk, before pulling a worn wooden box from the top drawer.

“You know you can tell me anything,” she says with a worried frown, eyeing the box carefully, but the assurance in her voice surprises him.  

“Right. Thank you.” Her face remains concerned, but he sees a kindness in her eyes that disarms him, breaking whatever qualm he had of disclosing the truth. “Lyrium enhances our Templars abilities, but it controls us as well,” he begins opening the box slowly. His eyes regard each component of the kit with a reverence that revolts him, the pull of familiarity causing his neck to erupt in goosebumps. “Those cut off suffer… some go mad, others die.” The small flask in the corner glows in an unnatural cool blue—its song softened, but persistent. It would be so easy to go back: to draw up the liquid with the syringe slowly and find a suitable vein. He can almost fell the tourniquet tight around his upper arm, the coldness of the alcohol-soaked cotton ball, the slight burn as he depresses the plunger… and it dawns on him that he has once more included himself among the members of the Order, as effortlessly as the day he took his first draught of Lyrium. “We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here. But I… no longer take it.” He can’t meet her eyes, shame and dread and _want_ making his stomach churn, and he feels much older than his 30 years.

“You stopped?” she asks in surprise, taking a step closer to him.

“When I joined the Inquisition. It’s been months now.”

She takes another step closer, as if willing his eyes to meet hers. “Cullen. Why are you doing this?” And his name on her tongue makes him shiver, finally breaking the toxic haze that had surrounded him.

His voice is stronger when he continues. “After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn’t… I will not be bound to the Order or that life any longer.” His hand closes tight on the pommel of his sword, and he forces himself to stand up tall and face her. “Whatever the suffering, I accept it.”

Aderyn’s gaze is unflinchingly intense, and he is acutely aware of the dark circles around his eyes, and the clamminess of his skin. He is sallow and haggard and twitchy and he knows she can see the sickness inside him, the delirium crawling at the corners of his mind. “I refuse to put the Inquisition at risk,” he finally says, shoulders sagging. “Leliana and Josephine are aware of the situation and… I’ve asked Cassandra, as a Seeker, to—watch me,” his voice breaks at the thought, and he clears his throat before continuing. “If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty.”

But she pays no heed to the impact of his words to the Inquisition, to the fact the she may very well be without a Commander to her forces before her fight with Corypheus. “Are you in pain?” she asks gently, her hands slowly coming to rest on his arm, and he starts at the thought that her main concern seems to be about his health, not the lapse of his duties.

“I can endure it,” he says, but somewhere deep down he knows he is only saying it to make her feel better—to ease the distress in her eyes.

He wonders if she realizes this as well, because she makes an attempt at a smile, her hands tightening on his arm in reflex. “Thank you for telling me,” she says quietly. “I respect what you’re doing.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” he says, and she winces at the use of her title, her hand falling listlessly from his arm. But they can’t be _Cullen_ and _Aderyn_ regarding this matter, not when there are more important issues to attend to. “The Inquisition army must always take priority,” he says firmly, willing her to accept it. “Should anything happen… I will defer to Cassandra’s judgement.”

She nods slowly, finally cutting her eyes from his as one slender finger pushes the food container closer to him, the action pushing the wooden box away. He doesn’t know what to do at first, his stomach unsettled and nauseous; he does not want to upset her by not being able to eat when she went through all the trouble of bringing him food. But Aderyn doesn’t linger: she just leaves him with a subdued smile, the door silently closing after her, and he lets himself fall to his chair, tired and achy and spent.

It was done.

And should her gaze be forever tainted by worry and doubt whenever she looked at him now, he would endure that too.

\----------

Aderyn leaves for the Dales two days later, to a region on the edges the forest called The Emerald Graves, and Cullen tries not to worry.

The area itself is dangerous and wild, entangled in a bloody local war, and he is not certain this Fairbanks character is to be trusted, no matter what Leliana’s agents say. Still, while they were discussing the situation at the War Table, he couldn’t help but notice the sparkle on Aderyn’s eyes over the possibility of finally seeing the ancient elven home.

So he dives into work, and there’s no shortage of work to be done.

He organizes a full retinue to ensure the safe passage of an Arcanist, and, to his surprise, that Arcanist is none other than Dagna, the dwarven student that took residence in Kinloch Hold—and she may very well be the first face from his past that puts a smile on his face instead of the usual grimace.

He left the Tower not long after Dagna’s arrival, but even in his unstable state of mind he couldn’t help but notice the young girl’s bright mind and eagerness to learn. And if he was being completely honest with himself, the fact that she was a dwarf, and so unable to cast magic, was also a factor in his easiness towards her.

She looks much as he remembers her, all inquisitive eyes and enthusiastic voice, quick-thinking and bubbly, and he still can’t make sense of half of what she’s saying. Still, if Aderyn needs an Arcanist, he doubts she could do better than Dagna.

“ _Commander_ Cullen, look at you going places,” she says when he pays a visit to the Undercroft.

“ _Arcanist_ Dagna. You haven’t done so bad yourself,” he smiles shaking her hand.

“First of the kind,” she says with a grin, before eyeing him speculatively. “I heard you left the Order behind. Good for you. Not that we don’t _need_ Templars, but I’m not sure you were ever meant to be one. And this whole red lyrium business is worrying, going around making people crazy. Or turning them into monsters. Literally. And figuratively as well.”

“Ah. Yes. Thank you.” He is not quite sure just how she became aware of him quitting lyrium, but it shouldn’t surprise him.

“Going cold-turkey, huh?” she asks and he nods self-conscious. “I can tell. I can’t hear it in you anymore. I mean, I can, but it’s muted, one-note. Grey.”

“Grey?”

“It’s not blinding. I can’t hear its heartbeat in you any longer. And that’s good. There should only be _your_ heartbeat in there, anyway. That’s better,” she says, and the thought if his heart beating free of the lyrium song brings a smile to his face. “There are not many of your kind too, you know. If you could let me study the effects of lyrium withdrawal on the human body, I can help with its side-effects. Maybe crafting a warding rune?”

“I don’t think a rune would help me much, Dagna, but thank you for offering,” he says. “But if I can help you in your studies on lyrium in any way, let me know.”

“Thank you, _Commander_ ,” she grins, and he doesn’t think she’ll ever say his title without smirking. “Looking forward to meeting your inquisitor,” she adds just before he leaves, and he wonders for a second if she knows about _that_ too.

\----------

They have used Blackwall’s treaties to conscript soldiers, and while the boost in numbers is welcomed, it means nothing if they aren’t able to survive in a battle. They are young, inexperienced and reckless, raising unsteady swords and disregarding their shields. They want to give themselves to the cause, but what’s the worth in a pointless death? So Cullen wakes at dawn and goes to join Rylen at the training fields in the valley bellow, inspecting stances, correcting mistakes and demonstrating fighting techniques.

It’s past dinnertime after one such day, and he is making the journey back up the mountain, muscles aching with the strain of the day, and the night is dark and cold. He is not quite sure how he manages to spot it, but there it is: a small raven--one of Leliana’s no doubt--tangled in its jesses amidst the vines of the main bridge. The bird seems tired, probably spending its forces in trying to disentangle itself, its jet-black feathers puffed up and its long tail bobbing in synch with its breath. Still, it draws strength as Cullen approaches it, shaking pitifully in a desperate attempt to get away.

“Calm down, buddy, don’t injure yourself. I want to help,” he says softly, stilling his hands palms up to show he is not a threat. He keeps mumbling gently to the bird until it finally stills, its dark eyes regarding Cullen cautiously. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you,” he says, moving slowly to cut the bird loose from—was that an Arbor Blessing vine? All the way up here in the Frostbacks?

He manages to free the bird, and he opens his hands expecting it to fly to its home in the Rookery, but the raven quietens in his hands, burrowing its head between his fingers as if seeking warmth. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?” Cullen coos, drawing the bird close to his coat. “Let’s get you home,” he says as he notices that the bird has a message tied to its foot. “Leliana is probably very worried about you,” he adds, as he enters the Keep, heading straight to the Rookery.

He finds the Spymaster kneeling in prayer by the Altar; he tries not to disturb her, but the raven is getting disturbingly quiet in his arms, and he is worried that there’s something else wrong with it besides the exhaustion.

“Can I help you, Cullen?” Leliana says, interrupting his thoughts, and he approaches her slowly.

“I found one of your birds trapped outside. I think it’s sick,” he says, and Leliana finally looks at him, a worried frown marring her face as she notices the listless bird in his arms.

“I thought she was lost,” she says, moving to relieve him of the raven, but the animal only burrows further into Cullen’s coat. “It seems she likes you, Commander,” she adds with a soft smile.

“She?”

“Yes. She’s still young. This was her first long distance journey. I was worried she wouldn’t be able to find her way back.” Leliana moves gently over the bird, inspecting for wounds and retrieving the parchment tied to her right foot with care. “She’s just exhausted, but she’s not hurt. A bit of rest and food and she’ll be fine.” They move towards the cages, and he tries to place her inside, but the bird doesn’t let go. “Come on, girl, you have to rest,” Leliana says gently, trying to pick the bird up, but it just holds tighter on to Cullen, despite its waning strength.

“It’s okay, I can feed her. What do I have to do?” he asks as he sits on a nearby chair, holding the raven protectively against his chest. He can feel its— _her_ —heartbeat hammering against her chest despite her unnatural stillness. She really is beautiful, her feathers glossy and jet black with purple undertones, only a single white feather on her breast breaking the dark plumage. A small thing, really, and she looks even smaller huddled on his coat like that.

Together, they manage to coax the bird into drinking some water and eating a few berries, until she seems to become more alert. They try to place her within her cage again, and this time she moves inside effortlessly.

“There you go,” Cullen smiles relieved, and he can see Leliana grinning at him from the corner of his eyes.

“She’ll be fine, Cullen. Don’t worry,” she says, amused.

“Yes. Of course,” he stammers, suddenly self-conscious. “I-I should return to my duties.”

“Actually, she was meant for you,” the Spymaster says, proffering the rolled parchment to him. For the first time, he notices his name written in a clear penmanship—Aderyn’s, he recognizes with a start.

“I-Thank you,” he says, cautiously storing the message inside his coat. He nods at her before walking to his office, the parchment burning a hole against his chest. He finally arrives at his office, sitting at his desk and he unravels the note carefully. Leliana generally used her ravens as spies while on the field, relying on couriers to deliver field reports or on her own network of agents to deliver sensitive matters; she only deployed the birds as messengers when time was of essence. If Aderyn had need to send a raven to him… was she in immediate danger?

He opens the letter with shaking hands, barely noticing something falling from it into his lap. His eyes go over it hurriedly in search of signs of distress, and it’s only when he finds none that its contents finally register with him, and he reads it once more, slowly this time.

_“Cullen,_

_The Dales are a beautiful, feral place. They say there is a tree for every warrior who gave their lives to the cause, and I can understand why so many would: there is magic here. History. We’ve all heard the tales, of course—every dalish has, even those too raucous to sit still for long during the Keeper’s lectures; but to be here and walk the paths they walked, to see the Vallasdahlen in all their glory? Magical._

_I am rambling, I know, and you will receive our full field report of the area very shortly. But as we walked along the river today, there was a feeling of peace and quiet that came over me… and I couldn’t help but think that you would have liked here._

_How are you feeling? Are you eating?_

_We have almost concluded our tasks here, we expect to leave by the week’s end. I hope to find you feeling better._

_Take care of yourself,_

_Aderyn._

_P.S. We’ve found the smuggler’s caravans. I’ve enclosed the letters with the field report. *That* is what I wanted to tell you in the first place. Sorry about rambling again.”_

He reads the brief letter two, three more times before he lets a smile escape, and his fingers close around the item that was rolled inside the parchment: a green heart-shaped leaf. If he hadn’t seen it earlier in the day, he wouldn’t have recognized it, and he wonders if she sent it to him or if it had somehow transferred to the letter while the bird was tangled in its vines.

Arbor blessing.

In the back of his mind, an old saying whispered: _“Blessed by the vine in spring, I shall not fear the winter's sting.”_

He does not dream that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry there were no notes on the first chapter. I'm still learning to navigate these fanfic-writing waters.  
> This is inspired by Sleeping at Last's Pluto, which is the definition of DA2 and early-Inquisition Cullen for me. This is also inspired by some of Cullen's deleted DAI dialogue, extracted by fontofnothing (fontofnothing.tumblr.com).  
> Hope you guys like it!


	3. Live A Waking Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t know if he wants her to push him past his breaking point, so he can shatter once and for all; so he could finally give up this pretense of healing, and overcoming and enduring and just break down.
> 
> The Inquisition doesn’t stop just because he feels like dying.

He can feel _it_ behind him.

His body aches, coiled tight with tension. His armor is heavy and stifling, the heat melding steel to raw and sweaty skin, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to peel it off without tearing himself apart.

They have fought with determination, ruthlessly destroying maleficarum and demons alike, but there is no end in sight, no hope of prevailing.

The tower is lost.

He is drenched in sweat and blood, and the coppery taste on his tongue makes him gag, bile overflowing his mouth as he dry-heaves. His stomach contracts violently, and there’s something black and vile trying desperately to claw its way out. He takes a deep breath, struggling to ignore the foul pungent smell of death all around him, and tightens his hand around his sword. He will not die today.

He can feel it whisper in his ear, and that voice so familiar—so _desired_ —that it wrenches a desperate sob from him, the tears hot and shameful and draining. There is a gentle touch on the small of his back, a teasing caress, a suggestive scrape of nails dragging against his armor, and he can feel it through layers of steel and skin, he can feel it his bones, his body breaking into anxious goosebumps, shivering with revulsion and longing and despair.

_I’ve seen the way you look at me…_

And he has looked, hasn’t he? Stared at her across the halls, ogled her hips and she walked away from him, searched for her across the courtyard. He has dreamed of her, fantasized with her, let his mind conjure up scenarios bursting with lust and sin. He is not worthy, not wanted, not _allowed_ —and _she knows_ , she knows exactly what he is thinking when he touches himself late at night.

_I’ve seen the way you look at me…_

A cold, damp hand curls itself on his wrist like a snake, lightly tugging him backwards.

_Look at me…_

His body shakes, struggling to escape this torment just as much as he wants to surrender to the deadly illusion.

It pulls him again, harder this time, and his body falls, falls, falls, the weight of his armor dragging him inexorably down—and just before his eyes close and pain takes over, he sees a flash of red hair and big bright birdlike eyes.

His body lurches off the bed, his stomach convulsing in agony as he retches. He stays there, naked and on his knees, the caustic liquid burning his mouth and lungs as it dribbles to the floor. He wipes at his mouth with the back of one hand, a haggard breath tearing his chest as the last spasms cease, and he lets his broken body fall to ground.

His muscles are sore and he has no strength left to try and get up, so he just lays there, staring blindly at the stars above the whole in his ceiling. Then the sky is slowly painted with warm golds and delicate pinks, and he can finally breathe again, his heart finally settling in his chest, his skin finally his own again.

_Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me._

_In the long hours of the night when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains._

His drags his battered body to the tub and scrubs his skin to a raw pink; all the shame and desire, all the horror and misery, the sweat and the tears and the bile. His nails scratch angrily at his scalp, as if they could bare the twisted corners of his wrecked mind.

He had dreamed of _her_ before, but never like this.

There were nights when the terrors were still; nights when he was so tired, his body didn’t have the energy to torment itself. Nights when he dreamt of Bran and Mia and Rosie and the serenity of the lake near his childhood home. They were few and far between, but they were a treasured reprieve to the unrelenting pain.

And then, there are nights when he dreams of _her_. Of clever eyes and mischievous smiles. Thick, wild red hair and nimble, sinuous feet. He dreams about the elegant column of her throat, and her dynamic elven ears, her perky breasts and sexy, flowing hips. Never _with him_ —not even his subconscious would devise a fantasy in which they ended up together. He just thinks of her, exuberant and feisty and carefree, and he wakes up moaning her name as he pumps himself raw.

The ensuing mornings are always filled with penance, of course: he doesn’t quite meet her eyes at the War Table, and he pushes himself extra hard at the drills, and he is determined to never let it happen again. (But of course, it does).

But he had never seen her _there_.

His broken mind had always harassed him with Solona’s dark sad eyes in the darkness of The Circle, a permanent reminder of the foolish desires of his youth. The eyes of a dead woman that refused to go away, forever trapped within the demon’s perverse travesty.

They were well acquainted with each other’s suffering by now, tangled in this never-ending dance of theirs: the boy that longed for atonement and retribution alike, and the demon that desired to have him.

But he thought he had kept _her,_ Aderyn, from It, hid her so deep, and around so many walls, that she would never be found. His best kept secret, a sliver of joy, a spark of hope. He had shielded her beneath layers of respectful devotion and sexual hunger, minor emotions that could never register on the scope of Its perverted mind.

But this?

_Maker_. He would go crazy if he had to face Aderyn’s eyes warped into Its cruel, merciless grasp.

He will break.

 

\----------

 

He sees him, but his mind doesn’t react accordingly. He should be more alarmed, shouldn’t he?

There, in the corner of his room, perched in his bathtub as if he were a bird, is a boy.

“The walls might be grey, but your heart is not,” he says, tilting his head to the side. “Heavy with guilty and fear and noise, it can be as light a brave Ptarmigan.”

Then the boy is gone and Cullen rubs the tiredness out of his eyes, and a new day has begun.

 

\----------

 

The list of names feels heavy in his pocket.

To discover the fate of Carroll was a terrible personal blow. Cullen had lost most of his friends in Kinloch during Uldred’s rebellion, and lost all contact with the few that survived.

To lose one more familiar face to the madness of Corypheus and red lyrium tears at him. So he writes to Aderyn about the intel and asks for a small mercy of making it quick.

And now he has a list of names—friends, colleagues, familiar faces—that he needs to make sure are okay; needs to know are alive and safe and away from Samson’s grasp.

And that list is much too small for his piece of mind.

The Rookery is empty, aside for the birds; Leliana is late. He is sitting at her desk, waiting for the Spymaster, when he sees it—her.

Small and jet-black with a single white feather on her breast.

“Hello, girl,” Cullen smiles as he approaches the cage. “I see you’re getting better.” The bird eyes him curiously, head tilted to one side. He places one gloved finger inside the cage and the bird approaches him slowly, nipping at his hand.

“I told you she liked you,” Leliana says from behind him, and he startles, jerking his hand off the cage as if he was caught doing something wrong; her amused smile only making him blush harder.

“I have the list I mentioned,” he changes the subject, handing her the paper. “Unfortunately, it is smaller than I thought.”

“I’ll look into it. Don’t worry. I’ll notify you as soon as I have news.”

“Thank you,” he says.

He turns to the bird, as if to say goodbye, but manages to catch himself in time.

Or not, if Leliana’s laugh is any indication.

 

\----------

 

He drags his drained body downstairs to begin his day—there are reports to read and forms to sign and orders to give. The Inquisition doesn’t stop just because he feels like dying. Aderyn has just returned from their mission in the Emerald Graves, and the day is filled with meetings and strategizing.

The late night War Room meeting is draining and seems to go on forever. There’s a dull ache gnawing behind his eyes and he skipped lunch _and_ dinner today, and he just wants to lock himself up in his room in the dark and scream.

When Josephine mentions her upcoming _soiree_ for the third time in as many hours—her none too subtle jab at his forgetting the previous affair—he can’t hold in the warning growl that escapes from somewhere deep in chest.

“I think we can leave the rest until tomorrow,” Aderyn, Maker bless her, interrupts, eyeing him with a thoughtful expression.

He makes his way to his office slowly, rubbing his eyes as he sits at his desk with a haggard breath.

“Can I come in?” Aderyn says, poking her head around his door, and he is not surprised the she has followed him. “I won’t take up much of you time.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he says, standing up. He had thought about keeping his distance from her again, at least for the first few days of her return. She had been away for more than a month, and while he wanted nothing more than to reacquaint himself with her melodious voice and sunny disposition, he didn’t want her to see him like this—worn out and sick and cranky.

“How are you feeling?” He is about to lie, say something placating to get her out of his office, but one look at her tells him she got him all figured out.

“I’m a bit tired,” he concedes with a sigh. “There’s much work to be done.”

“There is. Then again, we have also made great progress. Finding Knight-Captain Carroll was excellent work. It couldn’t have been easy, especially with you knowing him.”

“Yes. But I always knew there was a possibility of me knowing some of the defectors.”

“Still, it is a difficult position to be in,” she says sensibly.

It is a _terrible_ position to be in. He receives reports after reports of their forces dealing with the Red Templars, and he has close to his eyes to the possibility that the latest casualty could very well be an old friend of his—they might have trained together, prayed together, gone through the vigils together. And even if he hadn’t known the Templar personally, it’s still _awful_ seeing fellow Templars warped into monstrosities, manipulated by their addiction.

“Have you decided when to leave for Sahrnia?” he says instead, shaking this train of thought.

It’s all well and good for Josephine and Leliana to be daydreaming about extravagant Orlesian balls—but destroying the Red Templars source of lyrium would be a loss Samson wouldn’t soon forget, effectively crippling his whole operation.

And all without them having to socialize with dodgy Orlesians.

“Soon,” she says. “Varric’s contact will be arriving in Skyhold, and I have to be back before it.”

Ah yes. There was that. A face from his past he _definitely_ didn’t want to see.

He rolls his shoulders tiredly, the heaviness of the day—of the year—settling upon him. He just wants Aderyn to go away, to let him crawl away to his bed and hide. He knows she is wondering why he hasn’t brought up her letter, why he hasn’t been able to meet her gaze since she returned. Why he escapes War Council meetings as soon as they are over without a backwards glance, why he has been avoiding having breakfast at the main hall.

He knows she thinks she avoiding her, but that’s not it, really.

He just doesn’t want to give any more fodder for his nightmares.

He watches her hesitate by the door, and he knows he should smile, square his shoulders, put up a brave face for her… but he’s just so tired. So he just looks at her, waiting. Waiting to see if she will push.

And he doesn’t even know if wants her to push him: to talk, to get better, to be himself again. He doesn’t know if he wants her to push him past his breaking point, so that he shatters once and for all; so he could finally give up this pretense of _healing_ , and _overcoming_ and _enduring_ and just break down.

But she just gives him a small smile, just an upwards motion of the right corner of her rose lips, before she turns to leave, quiet as a mouse.

So he lays his head on the desk and concentrates very hard on not dying.

When dawn arrives, he’s not entirely sure he has succeeded.

 

\----------

 

Cullen tries to hide his shaking hands as he holds his sword and shield, but it’s a lost cause. He hasn’t been eating, he hasn’t been sleeping and the demands of the Inquisition are taking their toll.

He is exhausted. 

But the new recruits are unskilled and seem way too eager to die for the cause, and they rely on their swords much more than they trust their shields—they _need_ to learn.

He remembers how compelling the sword is: that sense of invulnerability that comes with youth, the blind devotion, the powerful drive to have your life mean something. Isn’t it why he left home to join the Order? Why he paid no heed to his mom’s pleas or his father’s advices and pledged his life to the Chantry? And where did that lead him? To heartache and scars and addiction and hurt, hurt, hurt.

No. Even though their cause if righteous—as he still believes his own was, a long time ago—they will learn to defend themselves. They will survive, they won’t fall, they won’t fall, they won’t…

“Commander.”

The stern voice so close to his ear startles him and he swerves, shield up and sword ready to attack, before he recognizes that the Seeker is not a threat.

_Maker_.

“You shouldn’t sneak on someone with a sword in hand,” he snaps, throwing his training shield to the floor between their feet, willing Cassandra to take a step back, away from him, but she is right there in his face, one strong eyebrow raised in disapproval.

“I wasn’t _sneaking_ ,” she retorts. “I have been calling your name for a while now.”

“And I am busy as you may see, Lady Seeker. If you could kindly _step away_ , I need to continue the drills,” he growls, turning a scolding look to a few of the recruits that had stopped to gawk at their interaction.

He is prepared for Cassandra to bite his head off: he knows she is not shy about voicing her displeasure. And to be perfectly honest, he _wants_ her to tick him off, wants her to push back, to pick a fight. He can already feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, muscles tensing and heart firing madly. For the first time in a very long week he feels _awake_ and _ready_. He tightens his grip around the pommel of his sword, hands steady at last.

But the Seeker just levels him with a cool gaze before walking away.

His shoulders sag, both in relief and disappointment, and he seeks Rylen’s sympathetic gaze from across the training grounds.

He will endure. _He won’t fail the recruits._

The drill is rough and demanding, and his bones demand a reprieve—but when they finally finish for the day the rookies are able to hold their own both in offense and defense, and they are all sore and feeling accomplished.

Cullen knows they’ll sleep like the dead and wake up feeling awful tomorrow, but that’s also a lesson in itself.

The sun is setting when he makes his way back to the keep, but the day is not yet over for him—not by a long shot. He has a pile of reports to sign and he has to coordinate a forward team to Sahrnia, and there’s a supply crate to be delivery to the refugees in the Hinterlands that he has to approve immediately.

He makes a stop on the tavern for a quick shot of whiskey and a cup of coffee to help him make through the night, but he is suddenly ambushed by a tickled Varric, who seems to be well on the road to drunkenness.

“I gotta hand it to ya, Curly,” he says with a snort, clapping Cullen on his back clumsily. “I didn’t think anyone could get the Seeker off my back.”

“I’m sorry?” Cullen says, deciding then and there to forgo the whiskey after all.

“She stormed in here after Tiny there—grabbed him by the horns—muttering about the Chargers and damn warriors laying around and delegating responsibilities or something.”

“And what does that have to do with me?” he asks, but he has a reasonable idea of where Varric is going with this.

“Well, there are three things that seem to capture the Seeker’s ever alert gaze these days: Birdie’s safety, yours truly here with the whole Hawke business and our esteemed Commander. And considering Birdie spent the day quietly huddled with Sparkler in the library and the fact that the Seeker didn’t bat an eye in my direction when she arrived at the Tavern… well, that leaves you, Curly. And by the look on her face, it seems you are in deep shit.”

It takes a moment for Cullen’s wearied brain to translate just what Varric is on about: he knows Birdie is Varric’s nickname for Aderyn, and that Sparkler is Dorian. And that Cassandra seems pissed.

Andraste preserve him, he cannot deal with Cassandra’s overbearingness right now. He gulps the scalding black coffee, tosses a few coins on the bar and heads to his office without another word.

He opens the door to his office and is not surprised to find an Inquisition runner waiting for him with a worried look on her face.

“What is it this time?” he sighs, rubbing a tired hand to his eyes. There is a headache brewing behind his eyes and he can’t stop moving or else he’ll crash—and there’s still too much to be done for that.

“Lady Cassandra would like to speak with you, Commander,” the young dwarf relays.

_Maker’s balls._

“Does this have anything to do with her watching the drills this morning?”

“It might,” she says in a tone that implies _Yes_. “She told me to come find you and glared. I didn’t dare question.”

“I thought Varric was exaggerating,” he sighs. He debates sending a refusal through the messenger, but the woman seems anxious enough as it is. “Thank you,” he says instead, sparing a longing glance to his cluttered desk before making his way back to the upper courtyard.

He finds Cassandra in the Armory, sitting in the corner of the room with a book glued to her face—which she hurriedly tries to hide when she sees him. “I did not think you would come,” she says, flustered.

_Did he have a choice?_ “Almost didn’t,” he offers, pulling up a chair in front of her. “But I needed to apologize, so.”

She hums, crossing her fingers over the table. “This conversation is already going better than I expected,” she says and he barks a tired laugh. “I did not mean to startle you today. You seemed tired, I was merely going to ask to oversee the drills if you needed a reprieve.”

It is a nice sentiment, and not entirely unwelcomed.

“I needed to burn some energy,” he says instead and she frowns.

“You don’t look like you have much energy to spare, Cullen. You haven’t been eating. You think we don’t notice, but we do.”

He wonders just who is this ‘ _we’_ she is talking about; if the whole keep is aware of his waning grip on sanity—and decides he just doesn’t want to know.

“I’m fine.”

Another raised eyebrow, and she picks up a bowl from the chair beside her, pushing it firmly in his direction.

Great. More food he won’t be able to eat.

“Cassandra,” he begins, but the Seeker cuts him with a firm, “Eat, Cullen. You are overworked, underfed and half asleep. _Nobody_ can keep going in this rhythm forever.”

He is touched she chose to generalize instead of focusing the obvious reason for his shortcomings. Still, he knows the truth.

“Do you think I’m unsuited for the task, Seeker?” he asks brazenly, wanting it to be over, and Cassandra starts, as if this was the last thing on her mind.

“Of course not,” she says resolutely. “I do think you are pushing yourself too hard, however. You have made great progress, but I fear you will throw it all away because of some misguided notion that you have something to prove. You do not.” She adds gently, reaching for his hand and giving it a brief squeeze. “Eat.”

He accepts the plate, but he has no intention of eating it. “I’m fine. You can stop checking on me,” he says, before leaving for his office.

The coffee is just kicking in when he returns, and he tackles half of the ‘urgent’ pile in his desk.

The food goes untouched.

 

\----------

 

The next day, Bull approaches him with a request to take the recruits as training for the Chargers, and Cullen tries not to groan. Rylen passes by his office and takes the remaining half of his ‘urgent’ pile, mumbling that, with the Chargers’ help he suddenly had the morning wide open to deal with paperwork. Cassandra sends the dwarven messenger (Maeve, he learns), twice more until he grumbles that when he told Cassandra to stop checking on him, he didn’t mean for her to _send others_. Varric drops by with a copy of _Hard in Hightown_ , takes one look at his sullen face and disappears in a ‘ _poof’_ of smoke. The strange spirit-boy—Cole? pops up suddenly, perched on his desk like a bird, leaves him a jet-black feather and disappears without a word.

Still, he can’t seem to be able to turn off his body. He takes a bath upstairs, scrubs the grime from his hair and face, and tries to sleep, to no avail. Around noon, Maeve comes by once more, awkwardly leaves a serving plate on his desk and departs without saying a word. He makes an effort and even manages three bites before his stomach revolts. It’s progress, at least.

He has just finished the second chapter of Varric’s book when he hears a faint knock on his door, and _that_ throws him more than anything. His office is open—at all hours, to everybody, for everything—and nobody ever _knocks_.

“Come in,” he says carefully, but he shouldn’t have been surprised to find Aderyn poking her hear from around the door, an apologetic look on her face.

“Sorry. I thought you might have been asleep,” she grimaces.

If she thought he was asleep, then why did she stop by?

“No, I’m at your service,” he says, closing the book with a frown when she makes no move to come inside. “Can I help you with something, Inquisitor?” She shakes her head, but still lingers just outside his office. “You can come in.”

She finally does, holding forward a red stoneware mug with a sheepish smile, and he can’t help but grin reluctantly. What is it with these ladies and food? “I thought it might settle your stomach, help you sleep better,” she says, handing him the cup. “It’s lemongrass and foxmint tea with a dash of honey.”

It smells _amazing_ —a clean, citrusy scent that reminds him of home, of tummy-aches and sore throats and sleepy evenings—and his stomach groans with want for the first time in forever. He closes his eyes as he sips slowly, its warmth and briskness burrowing into his tired bones and making him a bit dizzy.

“Th-Thank you,” he stammers when he finally manages to open his eyes, and Aderyn smiles affectionately in response.

“It’s nothing fancy; but I’ve come to find that this is the best thing for a peaceful night.”

He finishes the tea all too soon, a serene aura settling in the room. A slight drizzle begins outside, and he feels a breeze enter through the arrowslits that served as windows, helping to cool down his feverish, clammy forehead.

“If your stomach bears it, I can bring you more later,” she whispers into the sudden stillness of the room.

He hums agreeably, rolling his shoulders and neck until they give a nice pop.

“Try to rest, Cullen. And maybe eat a bit, okay?” She could have asked him for the moon, and he would have gladly acquiesced. So he just nods lazily, enjoying the airy feel in his head as his headache began to recede.

“Thank you,” he manages again as she leaves.

Upstairs, he peels his armor off slowly, relishing the cold on his sweltering skin. His bed beckons him in its gentle arms, and before long he is asleep.

Later, much later, he finally wakes up, his muscles loose and mind rested. Through the hole in his ceiling, he can see the stars burning brightly and the sky is clear as it only is after a good rainfall.

And he is _hungry_.

He chuckles at the absurdity of it all: after weeks of pain and nausea and insomnia, he feels _okay_. Hungry. Good.

He knows it isn’t over—withdrawal is a lifelong battle—but this reprieve is enough.

And, Maker, he is hungry.

He throws on a clean shirt and goes downstairs, prepared to raid the kitchens in search of a late night snack.

But there, on the corner of his desk, lies a tray of heavenly smelling, comfort food: a bowl brimming with chicken broth with rice, two perfect yellow bananas, a small mason jar filled with what seems to be applesauce. And beside it, a red mug with lemongrass tea.

 

\----------

 

As the days in Skyhold get sunnier, so does Cullen’s disposition. There’s ancient magic within these walls, he is sure—the wind is cruel outside, the outlook gray. But inside, the courtyard brims with life: energetic merchants selling their wares, blathering nobles coming and going from the Throne Room, rowdy noises emanating from the Tavern. Children splash in the puddles, trees burst with notes of amber and crimson, flowers bloom among cracked stone. The air feels crisp and clean and earthy, vibrant in its bountifulness.

Skyhold may be Elven by birthright, but its soul is Fereldan through and through.

The mellow morning brings about a much needed light-heartedness to the keep, and Cullen is not surprised when the War Table meeting is peppered with Josephine’s agreeable teasing and Leliana’s mischievous remarks. To be fair, he makes a valiant effort to get them to focus; but the sight of Aderyn trying to keep a playful smile from bursting out, her bright eyes barely concealing longing glances towards the windows—well, it puts an end to whatever modicum of restraint he still had.

“I assume we are done for today?” he finally says and is delighted when Aderyn beams at him gratefully.

“We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, Commander,” she chuckles, as Josephine and Leliana make quick work of gathering their papers before leaving the room in a flurry of titters. “Bull promised a round of something called Dragon Piss to everybody in the Tavern,” Aderyn explains, amused at the pair. “The fact that it’s not even noon didn’t seem to matter much.”

“ _Dragon Piss_?” he grimaces. “Thank you for warning me, I’ll be sure to give the Tavern a wide berth today.” But Aderyn just laughs, a carefree, musical ring that warms him more than the bright day ever could.

“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it. Still, I promised him I would stop by for a few minutes,” she says, moving to leave the room. “You know, if you’re interested,” she adds before closing the wide door behind her softly.

And, Maker, is he interested. He is most _definitely_ interested.

He takes his time getting his reports in order, giving enough time for his heart to settle its desperate riot in his ribcage; enough time for him to change his mind a dozen times about meeting her at the Herald’s Rest. Enough time for him to realize that she looked dangerous enough, with that radiant smile and healthy flush, without adding alcohol to the equation…

His office feels warm and unusually still as he tries to concentrate on reading the pile of correspondences waiting for him in his desk, but it is way too quiet without the near-constant interruptions from the recruits demanding his attention. He exchanges the letters for his copy of _Hard in Hightown_ , and wanders to the garden, which is unusually peaceful for that time of day—half the Inquisition still holed up at the Tavern, no doubt.

He gets through one more chapter, snorting over Varric’s description of _The Dragon’s Jewels_ ship, before the chess table on the gazeebo beckons him from afar. He has just finished setting the board for a solo game when he spots Dorian approaching him. “Playing with yourself, Commander?” he asks with a suggestive wink. “Just where is the fun in that?”

“Plenty of fun if you know how,” Cullen mutters, curbing the impulse to roll his eyes at the mage, but Dorian just laughs, sitting down and making a show of cracking his fingers.

“Oh, I have no doubt you are perfectly able to _entertain_ yourself,” he drawls, giving Cullen an appreciative look.

“Are you going to flirt around all day or are you going to make your move?” Cullen growls, and immediately groans embarrassed as Dorian smirks in glee. _Andraste preserve him_. “I meant to say, you have the opening move.”

Maker, it was going to be a long game.

“I have to wonder why are you hiding in the gardens, Commander. I was sure you would be _enticed_ to join the merriment,” Dorian finally asks after they have been playing mercifully in relative silence for a while, and Cullen has to wonder if Aderyn had said something to him. That train of thought would lead to nothing good, though—so he just shrugs casually, eyeing the board with renewed vigor and deciding to overlook the fact that Dorian had just pilfered a pawn from the board. “I could ask the same of you, Pavus. Who are _you_ hiding from?” he asks, and he realizes belatedly that this was a dangerous admission to make.

But Dorian just gives him a knowing glance, before answering, “Me? Partaking a tankard of _Dragon Piss_? Never.” He grumbles in a less than exuberant fashion, and moves his piece with a sloppiness that dooms the game for him. They make a silent mutual agreement not to delve too deeply into each other’s motives for avoiding the Tavern, though Cullen is very aware that the Tevene is just bidding his time until nosing again. “Besides, I would never miss an opportunity to _play_ around with you.”

“Gloat all you like,” Cullen smiles, “I have this one.”

“Are you sassing me, Commander?” Dorian quips delightedly, all pretense to focus on the game forgotten. “I didn’t know you had it in you!” he says and Cullen groans, before he sees a flash of red approaching them quietly.

“Inquisitor,” he greets, half-lifting from his seat in a show of suddenly awkward limbs.

“Leaving, are you? Does that mean I win?” Dorian taunts, a shrewd look in his eyes.

“Are you two _playing_ nice?” Aderyn teases, and her choice of words makes him wonder how long she had been listening before he noticed her.

“I’m _always_ nice,” Dorian offers and she laughs at Cullen’s responding frown. “You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory, Commander. You’ll feel much better.”

“Really?” Cullen asks as he makes his final move. “Because I just won, and I feel fine,” he chuckles, leaning back on his chair. For all the teasing, Dorian turned out to be quite the skilled player, despite his obvious penchant for cheating.

“Don’t get smug,” Dorian grumbles, before standing to leave. “There will be no living with you.”

“I should return to my duties as well,” Cullen says after they watch Dorian disappear towards the Throne Room. “Unless… you would care for a game?” he asks hopefully and is pleasantly surprised when she agrees.

“I’m not much of an adversary,” she says. “I never had the disposition to sit still for long enough to learn the game properly.”

“Ah. That must be the reason why my parents made a point of teaching us,” he offers as she makes the first move. "To make us sit still for a few hours."

“You have siblings?”

“Two sisters and a brother. As a child, I played this with my elder sister, Mia. She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won—which was _all the time_ ,” he says self-deprecatingly and she laughs warmly. “My brother and I practiced for weeks. The look on her face when I finally won…” Maker, he hadn’t thought of that day in ages. Branson couldn’t hide the smug smile all through their game, finally clueing Mia of their joint efforts. But their sister just smiled knowingly, and congratulated him warmly after the game was over with a proud ‘well played’. “Between serving with the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years,” he adds, homesick for the warm afternoons by the lake in Honnleath all over again.

He thinks Aderyn would have liked there.

“Where are they now?” she asks gently, noticing his wistfulness.

“They moved to South Reach after the Blight. I do not write them as often as I should,” he adds, thinking of Mia’s still unopened letter sitting next to his bed. “Is it my turn?”

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Commander” she says, biting her lip as she considers the board. “I wondered why you didn’t stop by the tavern, but I should have known you would be hidden away somewhere far from all the noise.”

So that _was_ an invitation, he thinks, shifting nervously on his seat and making a reckless move across the board. “I wouldn’t be much fun in any case,” he finally says. “People wouldn’t be at ease with me hovering around.”

“I assure you that seeing you chug two tankards of Dragon Piss would be _very_ amusing to me,” she says, levelling him with a mischievous gaze and moving one piece at random.

“Is that so?” he asks, only now noticing how her eyes look just a little bit unfocused, cheeks flushed despite the mild weather. “Did _you_ chug two tankards of Dragon Piss?” he asks and she giggles in response, a sweet sound that burrows inside the last of his defenses, and he can’t help but react with a grin.

“I _might_ have,” she says, capturing one of his pawns, despite it being his turn. “It was fun. Leliana and Mariden were performing a rather naughty duet, Sera and Varric teamed up to take Josie over Diamondback, and Blackwall had challenged Bull for an arm wrestle match. _Shirtless_ ,” she adds, with an appreciative wink.

“I wonder just how you could tear yourself away from such a _charming_ display.”

“Well, when someone suggested that the winner should challenge our heroic Commander, I knew I had to find you first,” she explains, and he must have made a frantic face, because she rushes to assure him with a gentle smile, “Don’t worry I won’t let them take you,” before dissolving into chuckles again.

“My savior,” he snorts, deciding to ignore the fact that she had just put her knight in clear sight of his bishop, not wanting the game to end yet. If she notices his ploy, she doesn’t acknowledge it; instead, she moves another piece at random—at this rate, the game will go on forever.

“Though I do have to wonder if you could take either of them,” she eyes him appreciatively, her gaze leaving a warm tingle wherever it touches, a pleasant buzz clouding his judgment, and he has to wonder if he really _didn’t_ chug two tankards of Dragon Piss without realizing.

“I’ll have you know that I am undefeated at arm-wrestling.” Which was technically true—though his last match was when he was 10, against an 8-year-old Branson. She just didn’t have to know that.

“Really?” she says impressed, “Now I kind of wish that they _do_ find you here. I’m sure the display of strength would be good for… morale.”

“Perhaps another time,” he offers instead, and she hums with a mock pout, before recklessly endangering her knight once again.

“Well… It would probably be too much for poor Dorian to take anyway,” she muses absentmindedly, waiting for him to move his piece. “He snuck out when their armor hit the floor, muttering something in Tevene. Of course he would come to find _you_.”

“Me? Why is that?” he asks and is rewarded by a roll of her eyes, and he feels like he’s missing a part of the conversation.

“Oh, he was just commenting on your many attributes before he left.” Really? And just why were they talking about _him_ in the first place? He is very sure he is not a riveting topic on a normal day, much less during an inebriated get-together. “Varric was telling us all about your Kirkwall days,” she continues, capturing another one of his pieces.

“I can’t imagine you should be paying much attention to Varric’s embellished tales, My Lady.”

“Oh, they were quite fascinating, Commander,” she smiles. “He told me to ask you about your daring inquiries in _The Blooming Rose_?” she adds, and he freezes, a horrible hot flush taking over his face and neck.

Varric is dead.

“He wouldn’t say more of it, but made it sound intriguing. What happened?”

Varric is very much dead. Cullen is going to make sure of it.

He doesn’t know how much the dwarf had told her, her big cunning eyes betraying nothing. He is even tempted to spin a heroic tale to save face—for all of two seconds. Not counting the fact that he was the worst liar that ever existed, Aderyn was way too clever to be fooled by whatever pitiable attempt he could come up with.

She’s still waiting for his answer, her amused curiosity no doubt growing exponentially with his embarrassed reaction, and he rubs his neck raw.

Maker, was he doomed to forever humiliate himself around her?

“The Blooming Rose was a brothel in Hightown,” he concedes with a sigh, and is rewarded when Aderyn lets out a deep hearty laugh, eyes watering with unrepressed mirth, and he supposes he could suffer the mortification of sharing this tale if it brought _that_ smile to her face. “I needed to question a few of their… employees, and hadn’t had much success, so I asked the Champion for assistance.”

“Why?” she asks amidst bursts of giggles.

“I didn’t feel comfortable, as Knight-Captain, to loiter in such places,” he answers with as much dignity as he still has, but he knows he is also fighting a losing battle against a snicker. “It’s not like I was _scared_ of going into the place,” he adds bashfully, moving his bishop back to its initial position in the board “The young ladies who worked there refused to talk to me.”

Her giggles finally die down and she is left with big sparkling eyes, her face adorably flushed, and _Maker, she is lovely._

“So,” she starts, eyes drifting towards the game demurely. “Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall? No one special caught your interest?”

“Not in _Kirkwall_ ,” he says before he can stop himself, and she lifts surprised eyes to meet his. “I-I mean,” he stammers, and what _does_ he mean? “It’s your move, I believe.”

And she smiles at him, a sweet, knowing smile that makes him wonder how he could ever hope to survive this game unscathed. “I believe it is,” she says, capturing another one of his pieces.

“This may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition—or related matters,” he says when his blush subsides. He moves his knight away from her queen instead of capturing it, and hopes she doesn’t notice. “To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.”

She rests her elbow on the table, and her chin on her hand, a wistful look crossing her pretty face, “We should spend more time together.”

He has to remind himself that she is _tipsy_ , that whatever she consumed at the tavern has loosened her tongue past her usual friendliness… but the hopeful look on her unguarded face has him stammering a dangerous “I-I would like that.”

“Hmm,” she smiles. “Me too,”

“You said that,” and he gives her a lopsided smile that he knows betrays every forbidden thought in foolish mind, and tries to cover it by clearing his throat. “We should… we should finish the game. Right? My turn?” he asks, moving another piece _away_ from her wide open king.

She blinks slowly, before shaking her head slightly. “Right,” she says, a fierce blush taking her face as she lowers her eyes to the board. He knows the exact moment she notices his own unguarded king, a roguish smile taking over her former embarrassment as she advances on his piece.

She has him in three.

_(But, really, she has had him for a long time.)_

“I believe this one is yours,” he concedes. “Well played. We should have to try again sometime.”

“If you feel like reliving those childhood defeats again…” she teases, standing up. “I should… I should probably take a nap before dinner,” she says. “I do believe Bull will find a way to sway me into stopping by the tavern again later.”

“No more Dragon Piss, though?” he teases, also standing up.

“No,” she laughs self-consciously. “I’m vetoing it from the tavern forever.” And then they are both standing, faces red and hearts stammering, and despite the ease of the afternoon, he still has no idea how to act around her. “I should go,” she finally breaks the silence, with a slight shake of her head. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Of course,” he says, with a slight bow of his head, but she’s already walking away, graceful and silent.

It’s only after she has closed the door to the main hall that he wonders if she would have let him kiss her.

 

\----------

 

Mia’s letter burns a hole by his bedside.

The longer he postpones reading it, the guiltier he feels, and the guiltier he feels, the more he doesn’t want to read it.

He just doesn’t know how to tell Mia that the man she’s trying to reach—her naive, stubborn and all too serious for an 8-year-old little brother—is dead.

He remembers when he first told her he wanted to be a Templar; how the first thing out of her mouth was not that it was impossible or that he was being ridiculous, but a sad frown along a broken “ _but you’ll have to leave_.”

_(Rosie wanted to be a cat, and Bran wanted a cookie.)_

But Mia? It was already a done deal for her: her brother, the Templar. The very next day she, along with their siblings, had started on his _training_. They played Templars and Apostates by the lake until it was late and their mother went looking for them, scolding that they had missed supper. While they walked home, she had grabbed his hand with a determination out of place in an 11-year-old face, begging him to be safe. He had laughed—he would be a Templar, Mia! A real knight! He would use a real sword and be really strong and help people! Of course he would be _fine_.

And then he went and got her idealistic younger brother _killed_.

He didn’t want Mia writing to Knight-Captain Cullen—that man was cold and angry, sickly lips stained in blue, controlled by his twisted faith and unwavering prejudices. His sanity was held together by a thread of blind obedience, his identity so defined by his steel armor that the Flaming Sword might as well be seared onto his skin. Why would Mia want to write that man?

But the letters still came.

And after the first scolding letter (which he never replied to), she wrote again.

And again.

She wrote about their journey to South Reach, how Rosalie dreamed about escaping to the woods to become a dalish elf, a whimsical teenager somehow still unburdened by the tragedies all around her ( _She wants to learn archery, Cullen. Sweet Rosie with a bow. Can you even imagine that?_ ). She wrote that Bran was growing into a dashing young man, and drew coveting sighs wherever he strode ( _Maker, he is trouble. One lopsided smile and all the girls swoon. I begged him to cut that mop of curly hair, but he just smirked and said that it would break too many hearts, the twit_ ). She wrote of honest work and kind people, of life moving on despite the grief.

She wrote that they all missed him fiercely.

( _We love you, Cullen. Please be safe._ )

And she kept writing, despite his silence. She kept writing, through days where his faith faltered, when his nightmares were ruthless, when innocent people died and the blame was on his shoulders. She wrote while the city burned and he desperately tried to put it back together.

When the lyrium haze began to lift—after days of being holed up in his tent, breaking everything in his path and shaking with the pain of withdrawal—when the freezing air in Haven finally broke through his numbness… he took a pen and wrote her back.

But then Haven was buried and people under his care died and he had failed. Failed again and again, and all he did was fail, and he didn’t know how to tell Mia her brother was a disgraceful excuse for a man; that the day by lake where he asserted his dream of being a Templar was forever tainted by blood and shame and death.

Yet there it was: not even six months after settling in Skyhold, a letter.

_"Dear Mia, I'm still alive. Your loving brother, Cullen"_

_Honestly, is it so difficult? We thought you were dead. Again. If the Inquisition was not on everyone's lips, we would never have heard that their fine commander survived Haven._

_We've been hearing strange things about the templars lately. I am not sorry you left them. I thought your resignation was implied when you joined the Inquisition, but you meant something more, didn't you?_

_It's a fool's errand asking you to stay safe, but please try._

_Your loving sister, (see how easy this is?)_

_Mia_

Maker, even after being away for so long, she could still tell him off with a few choice of words. But this was her shortest letter so far, her hurt palpable despite her exasperated tone. She probably had thought he was past hiding within himself.

And yes, he was not the same person. Would never be the boy by the lake with the bright eyes and noble intentions ever again. But he was _trying_ , and that had to count for something, right?

Maybe Cullen Rutherford was not dead. Just hurting.

So he sits on his bed, a blank paper supported by a book on Dalish culture, and begins to write back.


	4. The heaviness that I hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night seems peaceful outside. The desperate screams coming from somewhere inside seem like a whisper. The moon is full, the wind cool on his feverish skin. Below them, the darkness of Lake Calenhad beckons him to its arms, promising sweet deliverance. 
> 
> Andraste’s ass. If the Breach didn't kill him, these damned anxiety attacks surely would.

Cullen is returning to his office after a meeting with Rylen, when he sees Aderyn enter the leftmost abandoned tower at the battlements. His first thought is to call for her, but the mountain of paperwork waiting for him at his desk pull at his conscience. He pulls up a file at random and tries to concentrate on Belinda’s neat writing, but he is way too aware of Aderyn being somewhere nearby to focus on anything else but her. Her closeness tugs at something in his chest, and he finds himself looking up in her direction, as if he could see through the walls to where she is.

After re-reading the same line for the third time, he finally surrenders any pretense of work, leaving his office to go to her.

He finds her sitting on the ramparts, her back to him and her legs dangling above the sheer drop, hands splayed supporting her upper body and face turned towards the sun. Her melodious, birdlike voice barely reaches him, and it takes him a moment to realize that she is singing an elven song.

 

_“Vir sulahn'nehn_

_Vir dirthera_

_Vir samahl la numin_

_Vir lath sa'vunin...”_

 

It’s beautiful and full of longing, the lyrics burrowing inside of him even though he doesn’t understand them. It is heartbreaking.

He's afraid of calling her name and startling her, but Aderyn just turns her head towards him with a smile as if she knew he was there all along, "It's alright, Commander. You're not bothering me." 

He takes it as an invitation, approaching her slowly. This corner of the battlements saw the least movement in the castle: though the damage to the wall was substantial, the location made it impossible for enemies to approach it from below, so the repairs were relegated to a later date.  

Apparently the Inquisitor was putting the relative solitude of this particular spot to good use. 

One perfect eyebrow rises curiously when he stops one step before touching the balustrade, but she refrains from mentioning anything. Instead, she asks, "Were you looking for me?" 

He hair is windblown, red strands flying wildly framing her delicate face; her red cheeks are a testament to the Frostback's harsh weather, but she doesn’t seem to be bothered by the cold wind. He can see her slender legs slowly swinging without a care in regards to the abrupt frozen chasm beneath her, and he wonders how can she seem so poised, so in control of herself, even dangling from a precipice. 

“Commander?” she prods with a smirk, and he knows his eyes lingered a moment too long on her, and if he could throw himself from up here he would—distress of heights be damned.

“Yes. Right,” he stammers, scratching his neck. “I mean; no. I wasn’t looking for you,” and at her crestfallen look, he sighs a pained _Maker_ , before taking a deep breath to calm himself. “I meant to say, I saw you coming this way and got worried. This part of the fortress is not safe yet, Inquisitor.”

She seems amused by his worry, and he feels foolish for a second; but then her smile turns gentle and her eyes pensive and he knows he made the right decision by following her. “You seemed preoccupied.”

She hums distractedly, and faces the horizon once more “I was just thinking of home.”

They had received a letter from the Keeper of clan Lavellan that morning; they were worried Aderyn was kept against her will. While the Inquisitor’s response at the War Table was a fond, but mildly exasperated, shake of her head, he knows hearing from her clan must have shaken her.

“Oh,” he says, and he doesn’t quite know why her answer makes him anxious, and he wonders once again just how removed she must be from everything she knows. “You must miss it terribly.”

“I do, but it’s not that really.”

He dares a step closer to the balustrade, closer to her, casually leaning on the wall. If she notices the way his hand tightens on his sword, she doesn’t mention it.

“I was just thinking that I wasn’t our Keeper’s first choice for attending the Conclave.”

“Really?” he asks after a surprised second. That little intel definitely wasn’t in Leliana’s initial profile.

“Yeah,” she admits, before contemplating him thoughtfully. “You would have liked Elin.”

“Elin?”

“My elder sister. She is the First to our Keeper. She was the one who was supposed to come to Ferelden for the Conclave and report back. Josephine would love her— part of her training as a First was to study foreign customs, and she is simply wonderful at it. She knows _everything_ about _everything_. Solas would adore her endless supply of elven lore. Vivienne would be captivated by her poise and sophistication, Leliana would be impressed by her erudition and loveliness. And I’m sure Varric would have a much easier job of turning her deeds into a new tale—she certainly would have cleared this mess much more efficiently,” she chuckles fondly.

She has a loving smile on her face as she speaks of her sister—and, truly, this Elin sounds nice enough—but Aderyn’s whole line of thought is just _absurd_ , and he has to fight the urge to dispute her on principle. “I find that very hard to believe, My Lady,” he says instead.

Aderyn is _Maker-sent_ : keen and resourceful, vivacious and kind, graceful and witty—he could list all her many qualities all day and not even scratch the surface of what she is. It is preposterous to even contemplate someone else leading them. He can’t bear to consider the possibility of a universe where he never got to meet her, and his throat feels heavy with unspoken words of praise.

“Oh, she would have,” Aderyn continues, unaware of the adoration struggling to burst from his chest. “She’s pragmatic like that,” she side-eyes him briefly, before turning her gaze to the Frostbacks once more. “You really would have liked her,” she reiterates and he has to suppress the impulse to disagree with her again. “You would,” she insists at his look. “You would like her no-nonsense mindset, her direct approach to solving problems, her meticulous way of using magic. She certainly wouldn’t be dragging everybody around leading druffalos back to their owners,” she shrugs self-deprecatingly, and he wants to say that this is precisely what he likes about _her_ —how she sees the importance of their mission, but still cares so much about helping the people in other small, but no less significant, ways.

“Well,” his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat before continuing. “Your sister seems very nice. But I think I’ll continue thanking the Maker for blessing us with _you_ instead of her,” he says, and immediately blanches. “I mean—”

But Aderyn just laughs, clear and bright and lively, and he can’t help but to smile as well. “So how come you went to the Conclave instead?” he asks.

“A few days before she was to depart she asked to see me. She said she could see how I ‘yearned to know the world,’” and her voice ascends in pitch in place of her usual melodic tone, apparently trying to emulate her sister. “She offered to convince the Keeper to let me go in her place if I wanted.”

“And did you? Wanted to go in her place, I mean.”

She pauses to decide on an answer, and he has the impression that this was not the first time she contemplated the subject. “I suppose so. I guess she always saw me as an unruly kid—reckless and immature. I believe this was her way to determine if I had finally grown up.” She bites her lip thoughtfully, and though he can see that the subject troubles her, the idea of a wild little Aderyn running around the forest brings a delighted smile to his face. “What?” she asks, looking at him curiously.

“I was just trying to picture you as an _enthusiastic_ child,” he admits and she snorts, amused.

“Oh, _enthusiastic_ is a nice way of putting it,” she says, and they dissolve in a fit of chuckles. “I was a handful as a child, in terrible need of adventures.” Their laughter dies down slowly, and she adds, wiping her eyes, “I think I just wanted to prove myself.”

He hums, torn between wishing for her to continue, charmed as he was by the fact that she was opening up to him, and worrying about making her uncomfortable.

She sighs, with a half-hearted shrug. "Elin was already the First when I was born, beautiful and cherished by our clan, and I wanted to be like her so much. I used to emulate the motions she used when she practiced spells, hoping against hope that one day my hands would ignite a spark," she says, hands slowly waving in the air between them, and he feels his heart tightening in his chest uncomfortably at the wistfulness in her voice. "Our oldest brother, Lorcan, was a hunter apprentice to my Father, tall and willowy, handsome and serious, deadly with traps. And then, very late in our parents lives, came little old me," she shrugs, self-deprecatingly, "small and red and awkward." 

He can't help but laugh at that –at the absurdness of her description, and she blushes to the tips of her delicate ears. "Our clan didn't have many children when I came along, and my mother... well, she died birthing me, so they were all I had."  

She is silent for a few seconds, eyes once more lost on the horizon, and he wonders if she is back at the forest right now, little legs running after her siblings, face red with the strain but oh-so-determined. The image in his mind is so strong that he has to clear his suddenly dry as desert throat. "So what happened?" he asks softly, trying to bring her back to him, and she blinks dazedly. 

"When I was eight, I begged Lorcan to teach me how to lay snares, but he was too busy, in preparation of trying to capture a great bear for our Father. So, _obviously_ , I decided to try and catch one first,” she smirks.

“Obviously,” he agreed with a grin.

“So I stole—I mean, _borrowed_ —a bow that was twice my size and took off to the woods in search of the perfect kill. I climbed a tree, figuring I'd at least be taller than the bear, and waited," she sighs shaking her head. "I was nodding off when it finally came, and I was so scared I almost fell.” Her eyes are bright, lost in the memory and he is transported to her side, keenly aware of her stranded up on a tree, alone in the woods, so vulnerable and frightened, and he wants to gather the child she had been in his arms, keep her away from harm. “It went straight to where I was and it was huge. I started climbing higher and higher, and it climbed right after me." 

"What did you do?" He asks, needing to know she managed to escape unscathed, absurd as it was. 

"There was nowhere else for me to go and the bear was getting so close. I did the only thing I could at that moment: I tried to find a stable position, nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring for the very first time in my life, pointing it right at the bear's face," she says, her hands instinctively replicating the motions. "I held my breath, closed my eyes, and let the arrow fly," she says as she releases the imaginary bowstring. 

"And?" Cullen begs when she stops, eyes wide with worry, "What happened?" 

"I felt the weight of his paw on my face, and the bow got knocked from my hands... and then I heard the awful, awful noise of the bear hitting the ground.”

"You managed to hit it?" He asks and is surprised when she laughs, a clear, bright laugh that leaves her breathless for a few seconds. She touches his arm then, and he can feel how cold her hands are even through his armor. 

"I opened my eyes and saw Lorcan and five other hunters all gathered around the bear. And, behind them, stood my Father, his bow still drawn, eyes wide with terror. My own arrow had fallen somewhere behind me and nowhere near the bear; it was only then that I realized how my arm was stinging from over drawing the string, and the searing pain on my face from where the bear grazed me. Lorcan climbed after me, helped me get down and carried me to the healers," she says, pointing to the pale scar that began on her forehead, through her eyebrow and ended just below her eye, and he has to restrain himself from reaching out and tracing the thin line, commands his hands into fists. 

"Maker's breath," he sighs, shaking his head, "You could have-" 

"Oh yes. It's something my father never failed to remind me for the next ten years," she shrugs. "Two days later he made me my very own bow and started teaching me how to use it," she smiles fondly at the memory and gives a half-hearted shrug, "I just wanted to be with them." 

"So you became a hunter?" 

"Oh, no. I was only eight, remember? I had to live through years of ribbing from the rest of the clan. That story got told around so many times, it became mythic: 'little red Aderyn sitting in a tree waiting for the big bad bear to appear,'" she sing-songs with a lop-sided smile.

He feels his heart tighten again in his chest, as if it had gotten two sizes too big. "You were very brave." 

She beams at him then, and he thinks he may just follow her wherever she leads him. "I was not; I was afraid to death. It was reckless, impulsive and childish, as Elin never failed to remind me. But thank you for saying that." Her hand squeezes his arm, and she uses it as a leverage before she turns for her perch on the parapet, feet coming to boost her body up. The movement is so fast and so fluid that Cullen's mind doesn't understand what she is doing until she has already done it. And then he sees her standing on the wall, with nothing below her but... _nothingness_ , and his heart stops. His voice refuses to come out, and he croaks something unintelligible, and she just laughs, "Climbing trees does wonders for your dexterity, I guess," she says, two inches from falling into the abyss below. 

"Your Worship, please step down," he manages, his voice small, and she doesn't seem to realize that his heart still hasn't started beating again. 

"I thought, if they were going to sing that blasted song, then I'd be the damn best climber around. I was going to become death from above," she says, stance widening, one eye closing and aiming her imaginary bow right at him. 

"Please, come down from the ledge." 

 "Maybe I'll graduate from bears to Lions," she grins, before letting her imaginary arrow fly straight at him, a little noise coming from her red lips, "Boom," she says, and something inside him snaps. 

"Aderyn, come down!" He barks, voice cold and hard and desperate, and she starts, one feet going behind her purely by reaction, and _oh Maker, she is going to fall_. 

He sees everything in his mind. Sees her become aware of the emptiness under her feet. Sees the fear in her eyes as her body slowly tumbles backwards. Sees her falling and falling and falling... 

It doesn't actually happen, of course. By the time he manages to take one step closer to try and catch her, she is already safe on the ground next to him. Still, his body doubles over the rail, forearms supporting his whole weight as he looks down at the chasm below them. 

"Cullen," she says, voice small and unsure. "I'm sorry. I- I didn't realize-" she stops herself, hands closing over his fists. "Look at me." 

His heart is hammering on his chest and his armor feels so, so heavy, and he can't breathe. 

"Cullen, please," she whispers, tugging on his hand, and he shakes himself out of the horrible vision, feels her hand trembling in his. 

He takes a deep breath before facing her, and he must look awful by the way her eyes widen. "Forgive me, my Lady," he croaks, untangling their hands. "I should get back to work." 

"Cullen, wait," she begs, but he is already leaving her behind, walking away.  

When the door to his office closes between them, he feels his legs give beneath him, his body sliding down as his heart tries to rip his chest open and escape somewhere far.  He tries to breathe, but his armor is pressing him down in all the wrong ways, and, Maker, wasn't this why he refused to wear heavy armor again? But there he was, in full Templar regalia, back on Kinloch Hold on his knees as the demons tried to break him. He sees Templar Bran, dutiful, easy-going Bran, his young brother’s namesake, whom a homesick Cullen had tried to teach chess to once (before he gave up, Bran muttering that the game was duller than his doorman duty), running towards him, grabbing him by his shoulders and hauling him towards one of the windows.  

_Oh Maker, Cullen, I can hear their whispers_ , he says _. I can hear their whispers._

_And I won't let them tear me apart. Maker, Cullen, they're coming for me._

_And we can't let them, Cullen. We can't let them. As the Maker is my guide, I won't let them have me._

And then they are at the windows, and Bran is hauling himself up, eyes crazed but determined.  

_I won't let them take me_ , he repeats, over and over and over, the wind blowing his tears dry on his face. 

He turns to give Cullen a hand up, and Cullen takes it. 

Maker, he takes it. 

The night seems peaceful outside. The desperate screams coming from somewhere inside seem like a whisper. The moon is full, the wind cool on his feverish skin. Below them, the darkness of Lake Calenhad beckons him to its arms, promising sweet deliverance. 

_Oh Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights._

Bran laughs hysterically, _I'm free, I'm free_ , and he lets himself go, his eyes locked onto Cullen's as he falls, falls, falls. 

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places..._

But still, he lingers, his body refusing to let himself go.  

He feels the demon behind him and he doesn't want to look, doesn't want to look.

But he doesn't want to die. 

_O Creator, see me kneel. For I walk only where You would bid me._

He feels its slimy fingers closing around his arms as it pulls him inside, and he falls backwards into a never-ending nightmare.

"My Maker, know my heart. Take from me a life of sorrow, Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride..." He whispers again, and again, and again, until his heart slows and his breathing comes easier and he finds himself back at Skyhold, safe and on solid ground again. 

Andraste’s ass. If the Breach didn't kill him, these damned anxiety attacks surely would. 

He drags his achy body upstairs, in need of rest, even though it’s in the middle of the afternoon. He peels off the layers of steel and leather and sweaty undergarments, and if he could peel his skin off he would probably try to do that as well. The water on the washtub is cold, but he doesn't mind the icy pinpricks punishing the strung out muscles. He does a quick job of drying himself afterwards, before tumbling naked and dazed towards his bed.  

He really hopes he won't dream tonight. 

\-------------- 

Someone's here. 

Sleeping above his office never left much room for privacy. He was used to the sound of the Inquisition runners walking around downstairs at odd hours, leaving him messages from Leliana, reports that needed his attention, documents that needed his signature. When the night terrors were too much to bear, the comfort of work calmed him. He had a purpose, an objective. He was needed, and, at least for today, he would not falter. 

But this was different. This wasn't the brisk, precise footsteps of his subordinates as they followed their orders. This was a measured pace, deliberately unobtrusive as not to wake him. Then he hears a soft " _Fenedhis!_ " coming from downstairs, and he sighs—not that he should be surprised by this visitor. He presses the heel of his hands hard on his eyes, trying to drive the headache away. Reaching for a clean shirt and pants, he quickly dresses before moving downstairs. He really doesn't want to do this, but, fuck, he'd royally screwed up. 

Aderyn is kneeling by his desk, cleaning something from the floor and she freezes when she feels him behind her. "Sorry," she says, standing to face him with a frown. "I'm usually much stealthier than this." 

He manages a smile, "I'm sure you are," he says, his voice scratchy and low. "I'm sorry," he starts, at the same time she says, "I came to apologize," and her blush surely mirrors his. "You have nothing to apologize for, Your Worship, I-" 

"Cullen, please," she raises her hand, silencing him. "I'm not anybody's worship, and I really need to apologize." She waits for him to nod in acquiescence before turning towards his desk, where he notices a tray with a small teapot and a few pastries. "Would you like some tea? I noticed you missed dinner." 

He's not really hungry; he can never muster an appetite after an episode, but she's looking at him with such concern in her big eyes that he manages a small nod, cleaning some books from his chair before sitting down and reaching for a small golden tart. 

"I would join you, but I seem to have suddenly become a bit clumsy," she says, nodding towards the shards of a broken teacup she had gathered on the corner of his desk. And he can feel it, this so-called clumsiness. Aderyn is always so graceful, seems so aware of her body, every movement a precise dance... but now she stands looking at him, feet unsure and hands agitated. "I'm really sorry for worrying you earlier," she says, raising another hand when he begins to protest. "No, please, let me finish. I'm aware of my importance for the Inquisition, to close the Breach and as an image of hope, and I want you to know that I'm not careless with my responsibilities. Even though I trust my sense of balance, I really shouldn’t have risked myself so carelessly like that--" 

And he closes his eyes slowly, the impact of her death on the future of the world only now registering. And, oh Maker, what did that say about him?  

"Inquisitor," he interrupts, opening his eyes to face her. "My Lady, that didn't even cross my mind." He finishes his tea in one gulp, to give him something to do, lest he starts to confess his soul. The hot liquid scorches his throat, but grounds him in pain—because pain, at least, he understands. Because he _wants to_. Maker, he wants to confess everything to her so badly, every fear, every doubt, every worry. But he knows that it's impossible. Selfish. He can't tell her about the nightmares, about the scars of his addiction, about the pieces that are missing in his mind. He can't tell her, not when she was looking at him with such sadness and worry and guilt. She was finally becoming more comfortable around him this past few days, and he craved her presence, her friendship, way too much to scare her away. No, he couldn't let her see him when his hands shook and his body burned and his thoughts were not his own. 

He doesn't want her to see him as _less_. 

"I was worried about _you_ ," he finally says. It is much less than what he really wants to say, but much more than what he should have said, considering their situation. 

He is not prepared, though, for the small smile that graces her face, or for the way her body just... _relaxes_ , her hands stilling, her stance centered once more. She leans her hip against the desk and takes her time selecting a pastry before bringing it to her mouth, taking a dainty bite and chewing slowly. She reaches for his teacup, filling it once more and taking a sip, and the intimacy of the act catches him off-guard. 

Finally, when he can't take the silence anymore, when he is starting to doubt his words, when he starts to apologize again, she says, "I won't tell you not to worry, because you are a worrywart." Smiling, she reaches over and touches his hand. "Though it's comforting to know someone worries about me-- that  _you_ care about me, I'd much prefer not to burden you with this. I really am sorry." He starts to protest again, but Aderyn just smiles before walking towards the door. "And I’m sorry for disturbing you, you should go back to sleep.” She opens the door and just before she closes it behind her he hears her quiet, “Goodnight, Cullen." 

"Goodnight," he says, but she is already gone. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose forcefully. He is still tired, but the pressure in his chest feels appeased for the moment; he thinks he could sleep well tonight. 

\----------

Aderyn leaves for Emprise du Lion two days later, both eager to discover another ancient elven site and reluctant to leave Skyhold’s surprisingly mild weather for the bitter cold of the Dales’ Highlands. Cullen is more worried about the dozens of reports on Red Templar’s activity—they seemed to have seized the area completely. While it indicates they are getting closer to the origin of the red lyrium, it also means that Samson’s forces would hit that much harder to protect their source.

By the end of the month, Aderyn had secured them a new stronghold in the Dales, rescued the captive townspeople, brought an Orlesian Mistress for judgment, cleared the red lyrium quarry and recruited a former chevalier as an agent.

If she kept going like that, it would get harder and harder to reject her so-called bond to Andraste.

And that might even be a good thing, considering the recent developments—if the contents of Samson’s intercepted letters were true, they are going to need all of the Divine intervention they can get.

Aderyn had debriefed them back at the War Room about her findings, but it wasn’t until he had a chance to actually read the letters that the full impact of the implication hit him.

The Samson he knew is no more. He has become a monster.

He is so immersed in his revulsion that he doesn’t notice Aderyn entering his office until she is leaning over his table, calling his name gently. He looks up at her with a start, wipes his clammy forehead with the back of his gloved hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says, approaching his desk with a grimace. “I knocked and called your name, but you didn’t seem to be listening to me. I got worried.”

“Forgive me,” he says, gathering all the letters in his shaking hands. “I wasn’t paying attention. I’ve been reading Samson’s letters and--” he pushes himself away from the table with a disgusted sigh, balling his hands into fists and crumpling the weathered papers. “Samson is making red lyrium from _people_?” he scowls. He doesn’t realize he is shaking until Aderyn covers his hand with her steady one.

“Not anymore. Not in that mine,” she assures him.

“I knew Samson had fallen, but this? It’s _monstrous_. We have to put an end to him.”

“And we will. You said it yourself, taking away their lyrium supply just brought us one step closer to defeating him once and for all.”

And not a moment too soon, if Cullen had anything to say about this. Besides, who knew what Samson would be like when they finally got to him. What was this _Vessel_ business? Would lyrium have eroded his entire mind? Or would he be a literal monster, like Carroll, instead of merely a figuratively one? “That armor must give him extraordinary power. We may not be able to stop him,” is what he says instead, disheartened with either scenario.

“Take away his armor and his lyrium and Samson is just another man. We’ve already took care of half of the problem. Any ideas on how to tackle the other half?” she asks and he can’t help a small smile at her optimism.

“I couldn’t say how. Templars are trained _not_ to destroy expensive magical equipment,” he replies, knowing that it will make her grin, and he is rewarded with her musical chuckle. While he did have the training on how to dispose magical items securely, there was another idea brewing in his mind. “Perhaps Dagna could help us? After all, she crafts the impossible every day.”

\----------

Dagna’s glee over her new assignment is disconcerting, to say the least.

“Samson’s armor is _genius_!” are the first words out of her mouth as she corners him in his office the following day.

“Not what I wanted to hear,” he grumbles, rubbing his forehead worriedly.

“To do all that and not go _insane_? He must be resistant. Or he _is_ insane! Or both!”

“Not comforting me, Dagna.”

“Sorry,” she mutters, sounding anything but. “I’ll find out how it all works, don’t worry. Even if I have to explode Skyhold, I’ll—"

“Do _not_ explode Skyhold.”

“ _Sorry_.”


	5. Looking Backwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They told me you'd gone soft, Curly, but I refused to believe it until I saw it with my own eyes," a sharp voice says from somewhere near his desk and he lets his head hit the door with a weary groan. "Well, hello to you too," she adds, amused. 
> 
> "Hawke," he grunts resignedly, eyes adjusting to the darkness to find the Champion sitting on his table, a pile of unsigned requisitions near her knees in an immediate danger of tumbling to the floor. 
> 
> Why was something always in danger of falling whenever Hawke was around?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left out a small part of this chapter's end when I first posted it; I have just added it back, sorry!

 

She will get him killed one day.

The thought is loud and clear in his head, self-preservation warring against the unquestionable pull she had on him. His heart hammers against his armor, imploring him to run back to the lonely safety of his office and trying to claw out and run to her at the same time.

She will _definitely_ get him killed one day.

Aderyn is across the broken wall on the battlements, sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, lost in thought. She looks so small, so quiet, that he almost doesn't see her at first—it was only the flash of her red hair dancing wildly with the wind that had managed to catch his attention.  

He stops on the  _safe_ side of the ruins, wondering if he should just walk away and let her be, when she sees him and her face breaks into a smile. Her slight nod is all the invitation he needs, and he finds himself crossing the broken precipice to get to her.  _Maker_ , he begs, why would she deliberately choose to sit in the most perilous part of the castle, why would she hide in... 

_Oh_ , he thinks. She is  _hiding_. 

Her smile increases into a grin when he finally reaches her, his forehead sweating and hair windblown. "You looked green for a moment there, Commander," she says, and he shakes his head as he moves to sit beside her. 

"My training relies precisely on  _avoiding_ unnecessary danger, My Lady," he says, unclipping his sword belt and resting it on the floor next to him.  

"Ah. But nothing  _fun_ was ever safe," she smiles and tries to control her hair so that it doesn't hit him on the face.  

She looks tired, he thinks. Tired and drained and worried, and he can't remember the last time he saw her properly eat something. He also can't remember the last time he asked her how she was feeling, and the shame burns heavy on his chest. They threw a title on her lap without asking, and added responsibilities and expectations and duties... and they just expected her to carry it all gracefully and silently. 

The fact that she still was doing an admirable job despite everything was no excuse for the neglect on their part. 

"Varric's friend arrived this morning," she breaks the silence, eyes lost on the horizon. "Marian Hawke?" 

Ah. Yes. Hawke. 

The latest headache in a series of already painful days. 

Cullen sighs, dreading the questions. Hawke's presence in Skyhold was bound to dredge up bitter memories, and even bitterer conversations. He had refrained from seeking her out, but she would find him soon enough, no doubt. 

"I was worried about meeting her," Aderyn says with a shrug. "I had heard  _of her_ , of course. Everybody in the Marches have, even our Clan.  _The Champion of Kirkwall_ , who defeated the fearsome Arishok single-handedly and fought bravely to free the oppressed mages," she says, with an all-encompassing gesture of her hands. 

"Well," Cullen says, and he has to clear his throat before he continues, "Hawke did have a knack for wandering into dangerous situations." 

"Yes. I'm all too familiar with that proclivity," she side-eyes him with a deprecating smile, and he amicably bumps his shoulder with hers. 

"Why were you _worried_?" 

"How could I not be?" She asks, matter of fact. "Varric worships the ground she walks on. She and Bull were trading dragon-slaying stories the second she arrived in the tavern, Dorian was ecstatic she knew a few words in Tevene. And I swear I heard Cass stutter while talking to her," she frowns and he can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. The people thought Aderyn was Maker-touched, blessed by Andraste Herself with the power to save all of Thedas... and she felt threatened by Marian Hawke? 

Still, he doesn't think mentioning all of this would comfort her at all, so he tries a different approach. "She didn't do it all alone, you know. She had a group of friends who helped her every step of the way. As we are here to help you." 

Aderyn smiles sadly and presses the tips of her fingers on her closed eyes with such force that Cullen winces, fighting the urge to take her hands in his to make her stop. "I'm sorry, I know I'm being foolish," she says with a sigh. "I just can't help but think that-- That it was supposed to be  _her_." At his clueless look, she elaborates with a shrug. "I know Cassandra and Leliana wanted her.  _She_ was the one who should lead the Inquisition, and  _she_ was the one supposed to face Corypheus once again. She has the power, the charisma, the approval of the people and the nobility, of the rebel mages and disgruntled Templars both. She is a Champion and you got stuck with my Keeper’s second choice for the Conclave." She doesn't even wait for him to object, and touches his arm pleadingly, "I know what you're going to say, Cullen. But my importance here is  _this_ ," she opens her left hand, the green glow humming with hidden strength. "I'm a Dalish hunter who was in the wrong place at the wrong time-- which is the story of my life, really… But maybe Hawke is here to set things straight."       

"What are you saying?" He asks, but he already knows what she is suggesting, and his head is shaking before she even starts to answer. He knows she still hasn’t come to terms with her importance to the Inquisition; she still thinks she’s the consolation prize for her elder sister’s absence, for Hawke’s disappearance. Maybe she will always think that way.

But Aderyn just deflates with a haggard sigh. "Nothing. I know this  _thing_ \--" she closes her left hand in a tight fist, "is our only hope of defeating Corypheus, and I intend to see it through."

He slowly reaches for her fist, gently coaxes her hand open. "Hawke  _chose_ not to attend the Conclave. You volunteered to go. She  _chose_ not to come when the Seeker sent for her. You stayed when we needed you most, despite all the doubts and danger. You fought for us, and almost died for us. If you were not--" his voice breaks, and he realizes how tightly he is holding her small hand between both of his, and he makes a conscious effort to let go, a hot blush taking over his face. " _You_ led us here. Your friends follow  _your_ guidance. The people look up to  _you_ as a symbol of hope. I-- _we_ could never..." And he doesn’t even know what he is trying to say anymore.

Aderyn seems to understand him anyway, and her big eyes look up at him with wonderment, as she blinks what he thinks are sudden tears.  _Maker, please, don't let her cry_ , he thinks. But she just reaches for his hand, squeezing it gently. "I don't want to be anywhere else," she says, and he believes her. "Even if I think she is trying to entice my friends away from me," she adds, with a watery grin and he can't help the startled laugh that escapes him. 

Aderyn doesn't understand the effect that she has. 

He would gladly spend his whole life showing her.

"Well, I won't go anywhere," he says jokingly, but the rawness of his voice betrays the seriousness of his pledge, and she takes his whispered confession with a soft smile. 

"Good," she says, bumping his shoulders back with hers. "I couldn't bear if you did." 

 

* * *

 

He escorts her to the staircase near his office and watches as she walks towards the kitchens, gaze lingering on her far longer than it should. She catches him staring, _obviously_ , and he is sure she can see his blush all the way from the other side of the courtyard, if her wicked smile before closing the door is anything to go by.  

He feels raw and exposed after their conversation, but that tired and familiar ache is his chest seems to have found a new company: a quiet contentment located low on his belly, a warmth that seemed to appear slowly, timidly, whenever Aderyn was near.  

He's still smiling-- and probably still blushing-- when he closes the door to his office behind him, his tired muscles ready for, what he prays, is a night full of dreamless sleep. 

"They told me you'd gone soft, Curly, but I refused to believe it until I saw it with my own eyes," a sharp voice says from somewhere near his desk and he can't help a wearied groan. "Well, hello to you too," she adds, amused. 

"Hawke," he grunts resignedly, eyes adjusting to the darkness to find the Champion sitting on his table, a pile of unsigned requisitions near her knees in an immediate danger of tumbling to the floor.  

Why was something always in danger of falling whenever Hawke was around?

"You can come closer, I won't bite," she grins, and he fights another groan. Maker, couldn't she wait until tomorrow to torture him? Just one night of rest before their inevitable roll down memory lane? 

"It's nice to see you, Hawke," he mumbles, moving the ever-mounting pile of books on his chair to the floor before sitting down. "Can I help you with something?" 

Hawke walks around the desk to lean next to him, that devious smile still on her face, and even in the relative darkness of his office he can see that she hasn't changed much from their Kirkwall days. She is still all sharp angles, jagged edges and harsh humor, body made of solid spikes and unyielding leather, lean and hard and scarred; though she seems relaxed, casually half-sitting on the table, he can see the tension coiled in her muscles. Her dark hair is shaggy, and he wonders (like he did once back in Kirkwall) if she cut it herself with an unsharpened dagger just to get it out of the way. Still, what really triggers the sense of familiarity are her eyes. Icy blue and dangerous; though, he is surprised to see, they now look at him with a  _hint_ of warmth. 

"Always so serious. Can't I stop by to see an old friend?" She smirks. "Our Knight-Captain seems to be moving up in the world." 

"That is not my title anymore," he says, for what it seems like the thousandth time this year, and despite the fact that he means for it to be biting, it only comes out as a tired sigh. 

And yet, from the way she is sizing him now with those acute blue eyes of hers, he might as well be back at the Gallows, full Templar armor and a chip on his shoulder the size of Kirkwall. 

"Oh yes.  _Commander Cullen_ , leader of the Inquisition forces and military advisor to the Inquisitor herself. It has  _quite_ the ring to it." And when he refuses to take the bait, she frowns, "I'm surprised with the company you keep these days, you know? I mean, a  _Dalish_  Inquisitor, who has an elf apostate, a Tevinter Mage, a First Enchanter and a Qunari spy amongst her inner circle?" she taunts. "Shocking." 

"The Inquisition prides itself in being diverse and inclusive, Hawke. Whomever is  _willing_ to help, has a place with us," he provokes, but is not surprised when her answering flinch brings him no satisfaction. The guilt hits him hard, and he mumbles an ashamed _'I'm sorry',_  her eyes softening somewhat in response. 

"No, you're right. I wasn't willing," she admits, and her voice loses the jagged edge, and she just sounds weary and old and bitter. "I thought I had already sacrificed enough years already, enough blood, enough-- just  _enough_. But it's never enough is it? Not when there's a hole in the sky and blood on the land." 

"You did more than most, Hawke. Surely you know that," he says, because it's the truth. Though she might have had a hand in Kirkwall's destruction, she was also instrumental in its survival in the first place. He believes she thought she was doing the right thing—leaving the city to divide the Chantry’s forces and sheltering Anders, "Nobody blames you for wanting to stay away." 

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," she grimaces. "I just spent the last two hours hearing Varric and company recounting the many exploits of the _valiant Inquisitor Lavellan_ , after all." 

"Ah, the storyteller has an all-new tale to spin?" He asks and is surprised when she barks a humorless laugh. 

"Something like that, yeah." 

And, for the second time in just as many hours, he wonders how someone so imposing and important and brave can see oneself in such a poor light.  

_Maker, that soft spot he had for powerful women would surely kill him someday._  

"You look good you know," she adds, changing the subject. He sputters, at a loss for words, and she laughs—an abrupt, loud guffaw, and he finds himself laughing too, because what are the odds of them both being here, alive and  _relatively_ sane, after everything they went through? "I mean it!" she maintains. "Ferelden suits you, Commander. All that seaside humidity was  _killer_ on your hair," and then they are laughing again, the muscles in his sides aching, unused to the motions. 

And then they are not laughing anymore, and her face is so close to him, clever eyes all too  _dangerous_ , and he remembers how she used to stop by to greet him whenever she went to the Gallows; remembers wondering just why an apostate would even glance at the Knight-Captain, much less spend time talking to him. 

He also remembers deliberately overlooking the fact that this sarcastic young thing was traipsing around Kirkwall with a huge staff strapped to her back as if was  _normal_ , looking around for trouble to fix, and he can't help a fond grin.  

"What?" She asks, one thin eyebrow rising on her forehead suspiciously. 

He shakes his head with a chuckle, "It really is good to see you, Hawke."  

She searches his eyes for something-- and whatever it is, she seems to find it. "You are doing good work here, Cullen," she admits, voice low and with hints of genuine affection. "Your Inquisition is really making a difference out there." 

"We have good people helping," he concedes. 

"You do. I like your Inquisitor. She is clever and kind and she doesn't have a jaded bone in her body," she says, and his heart swells unexpectedly with pride. "She took my bite all in stride." 

"We are lucky to have her." 

"And she is lucky to have you," she adds. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't even  _believe_ her, and he has the sudden urge to tell her everything: how he cut all ties with his past, how  _ashamed_ he is of his behavior, how the guilt tears at him at night... but Hawke just shakes her head as if she could see inside his mind. "You're one of the good ones, Cullen. Don't forget that," she says, one callused hand coming to rest on his face, and he nods. 

"You know Varric won't shut up about you," he says, to fill the silence. "And the Seeker is probably trying to find the courage to ask for your autograph on her copy of  _Tales of the Champion_." She hums in response, her thumb slowly moving across his lips, and he is way too tired for this conversation. "It's late, Hawke," he murmurs instead, his hands slowly removing hers from his face. “You should rest.”

She gives him a crooked smirk before pushing herself from the table and walking towards the door. "You must find me at the tavern tomorrow before I leave,  _Commander_ ," she throws over her shoulder, and then she is gone. 

_Maker's balls._  

He feels twenty years older, and not all sure what had just happened, but he drags his tired body upstairs, heavy arms unbuckling heavy armor, and he throws himself on his bed, already asleep before his head hits the pillow. 

When the nightmares come, the statues at the Gallows are crying for him.

 

* * *

 

The War Table discussion on the next afternoon does not go well. After their conversation on the battlements, Cullen had thought he and Aderyn were in a good place; but she had barely spared him a glance so far, relaying her meeting with Hawke in a terse, somber tone. Josephine keeps stealing looks between him and her as if he was personally responsible for the Inquisitor’s mood, Leliana just crosses her arms behind her back nonchalantly and Cullen’s headache worsens.

“Hawke killed Corypheus before. He had found a way to influence Grey Wardens then—she suspects he was successful once more,” Aderyn frowns. “We need to act.”

“Red Templars, Venatori agents and now Wardens?” Leliana sighs. “Our predicament worries me.”

“To put it mildly,” Cullen grumbles. “What of her friend at the Wardens?”

“Warden Alistair,” Aderyn informs, and Cullen groans at the same time that Leliana gives a fond chuckle. Of course it had to be Warden Alistair, another war hero who had seen him at his worse. “I assume you are all familiar with him?” she questions.

“He is and old friend,” Leliana offers. “A veteran of the Blight. And I trust him implicitly. If Hawke can locate Alistair for us, we should pursue it.”

“She will be heading to Crestwood first thing tomorrow—She thought it better to meet him first alone. I’ll follow in a few days’ time after she sends news.”

“We don’t know yet what happened in Crestwood. We have no communication to or from there. I don’t like the sound of this,” Cullen can’t help but remind them. He doesn’t believe Hawke would betray them, but her impulsiveness could very well be leading Aderyn into a trap. “We should scout the area first, make sure the Warden is who Hawke says he is.”

 

“If he is as worried as Hawke said, he might flee if he spots our Scouts,” Aderyn says, shaking her head, and it’s the first time she looks directly at him today. “It’s too risky and he’s too valuable.”

He barely manages to hold back adding that _she_ was too valuable. Thankfully, Leliana intervenes at his favor, “Harding is in Skyhold, we can send her after Hawke and wait for her report. Agreed?”

He can see Aderyn is not happy with the situation, and he almost believes that she would disregard her own safety to follow Hawke into the unknown, but she just nods in resignation, before dismissing the meeting.

He tries to catch her attention, but she slips outside without a word or look in his direction.

“So, _how is_ Marian Hawke?” Leliana approaches him from behind while he gathers his reports and he can’t help but throw her a puzzled glance over his shoulder.

“Leliana!” Josephine warns, pointing her quill at the bard in warning.

“Weren’t you two just talking at the tavern yesterday?” he asks, turning to face the spymaster, pulling himself to his full height. She might seem casual, but Leliana was always ready to pounce, and he had learned long ago never to drop his guard around her.

“Yes, but I assumed you had an insider’s scoop after your late night chat.”

It takes him a couple of seconds to understand her insinuation, but when it hits him, he growls, “What exactly are you implying?”

“I’m not _implying_ anything, Commander,” she says, one eyebrow raised in derision.

“Good, then this conversation is over,” he says, moving to leave the room, hands balled into fists. The room’s double doors are way too heavy to be slammed—and, really it would be childish to do so… but he slams it closed behind him anyway.

He is not prepared to find Aderyn waiting for him in his office, though.

She stands by his bookcases, perusing the titles with a serious look on her face. She seems absorbed with it, oblivious to his entrance, but he knows better: the rigid set of her shoulders, the slight tic on her jaw; her body tells a tale of uneasiness.

He takes a deep breath—or twenty—before asking, “Looking for something in particular?”

She hums distractedly, giving him a one-shoulder shrug. “Interesting titles you’ve got here. _Qunari Prayers for the Dead, Aveline - Knight of Orlais, The Noladar Anthology of Dwarven Poetry, A Study of Thedosian Astronomy…_ ” she lets her fingers caress each one of the titles, before stopping at the last one in the second shelf from the top. “ _The Judgment of Mythal?_ ”

“I like to read,” he says approaching her slowly. They look at the books together in silence, shoulders a hair's breadth apart, and he can feel heat and nerves radiating off of her.

She hums again, picking a battered copy of _The Legend of Calenhad_ and thumbing through the first few pages, before closing it slowly and holding it to her chest with care.

“Is everything all right?” he finally asks, turning to face her, and she sighs, leaning on his desk.

She holds the book tighter, closer to her. “Can I borrow this?”

“Of course,” he replies. “Anything you want; it’s yours,” his voice is hoarse and low and Aderyn finally looks at him, startled. He knows he is blushing fiercely, but he manages not to tear his gaze from hers.

Finally, she lowers her gaze, shoulders sagging with a tired groan. “I’m sorry, Cullen,” she says, and it’s the last thing he expects.

And then he thinks of Leliana’s misguided insinuation, and, Maker, if this has anything to do with this… “You have nothing to apologize for,” he begins cautiously, moving to lean on the desk beside her. “This day has been draining for us all.”

“And you are way too kind for your own good,” she says, with a roll of her pretty eyes. “I ran into Hawke last night.” When he offers nothing, Aderyn gives him a sidelong glance. “She mentioned seeing you.”

“She did.”

“She mentioned you two being close in Kirkwall.”

And he snorts loudly, shaking his head. “Really?”

“Cullen,” Aderyn grumbles—almost, _almost_ whines—and it is so pretty, so… incongruously _cute_ , that he can’t help but laugh at her displeased frown. “I’m glad you find this amusing.”

“Hawke is just trying to goad you. It’s her own peculiar brand of social interaction: making a sarcastic comment here one day and saving your skin there on another. You’ve seen her with Varric. It means she likes you.”

She eyes him skeptically, but she’s trying to hold back a grin, so he bumps his shoulder with hers, bringing their heads close together. “You don’t have to worry about Hawke.”

“I don’t?” she asks, and he has a strangely elating feeling that she is asking about something else entirely. So he just shakes his head slowly in response and she nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

She breaks eye contact first, shaking the book in her hand, “Can I still borrow this?”

He clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair and smiles, “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Leliana’s runner is testing his patience.

Aderyn had left for Crestwood that morning, along with Solas, Cassandra and Varric, and despite Harding’s assurance that Alistair was indeed waiting for them, the situation there was too risky and unclear for him to relax.

Veteran Warden Alistair, The Champion of Kirkwall and the Inquisitor all together at some underground cave in the middle of nowhere? It had vast political implications, and it presented an all too real opportunity for the enemy to strike. The area wasn’t secured, they didn’t have the layout of the terrain, and his troops would certainly be slowed by the dreadful weather and the horde of undead. This whole thing had the potential to end in catastrophe.

And yet, Josephine and Leliana were absorbed by petty arguments about _interludes_ , and they hadn’t given up on wanting to draw him in on it. Leliana’s snide comment about Hawke the week before still made him seethe, and Josephine had holed herself up in her office for reasons unknown, and he just wanted to scream that there was an ancient magister tearing the fucking sky and could they please not act like children.

“Leliana can deal with this,” Cullen says, making an annotation on the latest report of the undead activity in Crestwood. He’d have to talk to Rylen about the soldiers they would sent.

But the young runner just states, “Sister Leliana is not going to the Interlude. She says _you_ have to go.”

“Sister Leliana does not have the authority to order this,” Cullen sighs, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand holding the quill—and accidently smudging himself with the ink in the process.

“It is not an order, Sir. It is a request,” the boy tries again, and Cullen snorts. “She fears Lady Montilyet’s feelings will be hurt if you both decline to attend the Interlude tomorrow.”

“Oh for _Andraste’s sake_!” Cullen finally snaps. “Enough with this _Interlude_ business! It’s a _tea party_! Which I simply do not have time for!”

“Sir…”

“You are _dismissed_ ,” he states firmly, daring the poor runner to challenge him, but he just gives him a curt bow before crawling back to the Rookery.

He finds Rylen by the armory arguing with Charter, one of Leliana’s spies, and it takes him close to half an hour to get them to settle down and do their damned jobs. On his way back to his office, he notices a few nearby soldiers snapping at each other, petty arguments that shushed when he approached and rose again in volume when he departed.

They are all tired, he _knows_. The drills were becoming more and more demanding, there were new recruits arriving by the dozens, and they neither had the space, not the time to get them all into shape. The Templars and Mages were getting along just about how he’d expected it, and he was called to settle disagreements more often than he wanted. Their help was welcomed—more than that, it was desperately needed—but they would kill each other before Corypheus could have the chance.

Right now there are three field agents arguing near his door, no doubt waiting for him to return to settle some new nonsense or another. “Gather the ranks at the lower courtyard,” he barks as he approaches them, before they could utter a word. He is pleased to see Belinda snap to attention, the Templar training strong in her every move.

“Yes, Sir,” she bows, before moving to the courtyard. The other two agents, Thornton and Korbin, follow at a more sedate pace.

He stops by the Tavern and picks up Bull on his way to the courtyard, where a large number of Inquisition’s soldiers, spies, agents and mages are already gathered. They all stand tall and silent, but Cullen can see the worry in their eyes. This has to change.

“Inquisition!” he roars as he approaches them, and is pleased when most recruits—and more than a few seasoned soldiers—jump at his tone. “It has come to my attention that we have had several conflicts in the ranks. I have heard enough complaints in the last week to fill several volumes,” he says, crossing his arms and looking at the crowd reproachfully.

“I thought this wasn’t a Circle,” an elderly mage ventures, eyeing the Templar next to her with distrust.

“Well, if this were a circle, then maybe you wouldn’t have almost burned the tower, _Mage_!” the Templar responds, pointing to a bald patch on his head.

“Ugh. Are all Shems like this?” a dalish elf groans.

“Neria just hates everything!” spits a dwarf.

And then everyone starts talking all at once, bickering like children. Maker, he thought they were past this. Beside him, Bull laughs amusedly, and Cullen throws the Qunari an exasperated glare.

“Enough!” Cullen growls, and at once the courtyard is silent. Even the merchants have stopped their incessant babbling, and some passing nobles are peering curiously from the upper courtyard. “I’ve heard enough. Effective immediately, all field agents are required to complete team-building exercises while on missions.” He stops to wait for reactions, but no one dares a peep. Then he turns to the Mages and Templars, “This is not a Circle! Work together. You are all the Inquisition.” The Templars bow their heads in assent, while most mages look at him in surprise.

“Bull.”

“Just say the word, Cullen,” the Qunari answers, cracking his fingers slowly, and Cullen has to curb the impulse to roll his eyes. His soldiers are well aware how rough Bull can be during drills, but he doesn’t need to scare the poor mages to death.

“I want you divided in four teams. _Mixed_ teams,” he stops again, waiting for complaints, and, again, none come. “Blackwall, Bull, Rylen and Charter are team leaders. You are all expected to be at the valley in half an hour.”

The crowd disperses, and Blackwall, who had been watching from a distance, approaches him with a chuckle. “Team leader? Of what exactly?”

Yeah. Cullen hadn’t worked out the plan that far. Charter and Rylen also draw near, the first with a distrustful glare, the second with a worried frown.

“I know we are all tired,” Cullen starts, rubbing his forehead, “But this can’t go on. We need to be a cohesive unit. I’m still seeing young recruits ready to die, unprepared for battle. They don’t trust Leliana’s spy network intel to back them in the field. The Mages don’t feel safe, the Templars don’t know their function and most agents are acting independently without reporting to a superior. This ends today.”

“Okay,” Charter starts. “How do you want to do this, Sir?”

“Boot Camp?” Blackwall proposes.

“A good ruck marsh through the mountains will do them good,” Rylen suggests.

“Not all of them have a warriors’ endurance,” Cullen reminds them, trying to come up with an activity that took into account their different backgrounds. And then he thinks of days in Honnleath, when his loud siblings wanted him to play two hundred different things at the same time. “Their strength should lie in their diversity; we just have to bring it all together.”

“I’ve got this,” Bull grins, and they set to work.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the day, they are all sore and worn-out, but there is a lightness amongst the Inquisition that wasn’t there before. Two of the teams are camping further down the mountains, the other two were undergoing mixed combat trainings, and they would swap the task in two days. Each team had chosen two secondary leaders, and they would be responsible for leading their own teams in the future, branching the initiative down the ranks until it reached all of the rookies. It was only the first day, but, so far, nobody had killed each other yet.

He finds Maeve in his office, with another crumpled piece of paper in her hands and a lost look on her face. “All it says is _‘Uldred marked you, but didn’t make you. You stayed you.’_ ”

 

* * *

 

He has just decided to go for a late-morning breakfast in the kitchens when he runs into Leliana outside of his door. After the strain of the day before, he wanted nothing more than a simple, boring day filled with paperwork he could take care right from his desk—and the Spymaster’s presence did not bode well for him.

“Sister Leliana,” he greets, opening the door for her to come in.

“Good morning, Commander. Impressive work yesterday. Charter was informing me about its success.”

His first impulse is to snap that he knows how to do his job, thank you very much; but that would lead the conversation nowhere fast.

“You are right,” she continues when he doesn’t say anything. “The Inquisition’s strength lies in its diversity. Each one of them brings something to the table, and everything counts to defeat Corypheus.” Well, that almost seemed polite, if you discounted her slightly patronizing tone. “And that’s precisely why we should join Josie today.”

Ah. There it was. The dagger on his back.

“I don’t have time for…” he begins before taking a deep breath. _Andraste preserve him_. “It’s a _tea party_ , that’s hardly team building material.”

“And yet here we stand, cross at each other.”

“I am not _cross_.” He is well aware he is being petulant, but _she_ had started it.

She seems to realize it as well, since she takes a deep breath before saying, “I apologize.” And his eyebrows jump to his hairline in surprise. “I was out of place. Your personal business with Hawke have nothing to do with the Inquisition.”

“Oh, for Andraste’s sake!” He explodes, pulling his hair in two different directions, before pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off another incipient headache. Why were they still arguing about this? Even if he _had_ slept with Hawke, he didn’t think it would mean that much to Leliana, of all people. “Why are you insisting on this? I have no personal business with Hawke whatsoever.”

But the bard just eyes him skeptically, and he has to wonder if he somehow, absurdly enough, acquired a reputation of sleeping around. “ _What_?”

She contemplates him quietly for a few seconds before she finally answers, “I have noticed you and Aderyn are spending quite a lot of time together.”

Oh.

_Oh_.

And really, that isn’t even true. They bump into each other every now and again and end up talking, but excluding their chess game, they haven’t really _spent time_ together.

“What are you implying _this time_?” he asks, suddenly tired. He also really needs to eat something. He might be hallucinating this whole conversation.

“I’m not implying anything, Cullen,” she says, serious. “I’m just…” Then she sighs, leaning against the door. “Aderyn is young and kind and, right now she is tasked with a great responsibility. You are a good person who has been through too much.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?” He frowns, heart sinking horribly.

He knows well enough that Aderyn is not meant for him. Even if, _and that is a big fucking if_ , he had managed to register in her radar as anything more than her emotionally dysfunctional military advisor, she was smart enough not to get involved with someone like him. He is too damaged, too angry, all raveled fists and rigid armor and sleepless nights.

He knows that. Knows with every fiber of his cracked psyche.

It’s just hard to hear someone like Leliana, who had seen him at his worst, confirm his insecurities.

“Cullen,” she says, breaking him from his miserable thoughts. “It just means I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.” He looks at her, really looks at her, and how tired her eyes look, how drawn her mouth is, and it dawns of him: she is not _angry_ , she is _worried_ , and the realization stuns him, heat blossoming on his face and down his neck.

He is not used to people worrying about him, though he has managed to surround himself by a group who seemed fine to do just that. It confuses him and warms him, and he just nods at her, wordless and heartened.

As if reading his thoughts, Leliana just smiles and changes the subject, “We are, however, expected at Josie’s tea party,” she reminds him, and he groans. “She would be very _disappointed_ at us if we missed.”

He snorts, “I think I can handle a disappointed Josephine.”

“Oh, no you don’t. She is expecting us at the gazebo.” Great. She couldn’t have picked a more public place. That was just what he needed: being seen gossiping over tea during work hours. But Leliana seems to see right through him, “She secluded the garden for the Interlude. Advisors only.” Marginally better, but still far from ideal. “And she sent for a whole spread of baked goods. I was told she even sent for a classic Fereldan cinnamon apple bread, especially for you.”

Well. Never let it be said the Ambassador didn’t get her way.

“ _And_ hot spiced wine,” Leliana adds with a sly grin.

“Lead the way, Sister Nightingale.”

 

* * *

 

The Interlude, Cullen begrudgingly admits, was _fine_.

It seemed restraint was not a part of Josephine’s vocabulary. There was hot spiced wine and moist apple bread indeed—and Cullen had to make a conscious effort not to swallow it all in one huge bite. There were Orlesian tiny cakes decorated with all sorts of toppings, Banana spreads from Rivain and six different types of cheeses.

More than that, there was a peaceful late morning filled with easy banter. It would not last, he was sure; there were too many dangers ahead, too many opportunities for them to argue and bicker against each other. There was Aderyn with little back up somewhere near Crestwood, and long days waiting for news.

But for today, they ate and talked and smiled. And Cullen could breathe just a little bit easier.

 

* * *

 

The week went by in a blur of drills and team building exercises, and, Cullen had to admit, everything was going better than he expected.

He is signing a requisition for the dispatch of supply crates for the forward post in Sahrnia when there’s a flurry of movement behind him. He turns around in his chair, startled, to find one of Leliana’s raven perched on the arrowslit, dark eyes studying him intently.

“Are you lost again?” he asks when he identifies it as the one he rescued from the vines, that white feather a stark contrast against its jet black plumage. He moves a hand closer and, surprisingly, the bird moves to perch on his arm, burrowing her face on his coat. There’s another note wrapped on her leg, and Cullen carefully extracts it with shaking hands, heart pounding on his chest.

_“Smooth meeting. Moving to camp. News soon.”_

Aderyn. Safe.

He gathers the bird close and heads straight to find Leliana at the rookery. She takes one look at the note and sighs with a relieved smile, “What do I have to do to get her to encode her notes?”

 

* * *

 

The good news was that the Inquisition had control of Crestwood. They had captured Caer Bronach, sorted out the undead menace, closed rifts, dealt with a High Dragon— _Maker’s balls, a high dragon_ —and got Alistair to work with them, obtaining a solid lead on the Wardens in the process. Bad news was, Aderyn was going straight to the Western Approach to deal with it immediately.

Except it wasn’t really bad news, was it? That was what they wanted: to get to the bottom of this “fake calling” business and discover just what Corypheus was doing to the Wardens. He just… he just wanted her back. Just for a little while. Just to see she was okay (because, Maker, a high dragon?).

They deploy a forward team to the Approach with supplies to meet with them and now they wait. Problem is, his concentration is shot to hell. He has a million things to do, but until they receive confirmation that Aderyn and her team were safe, he is worthless.

Wardens. They were going against Grey _fucking_ Wardens.

Somehow, after everything the Inquisition had faced, this managed to worry him more. Grey Wardens were ruthless, the best and brightest; add that to the influence of a dangerous magister imitating The Calling, and the situation had the potential to be lethal.

“Sir?”

He startles, lost in his thoughts, and looks up to find Maeve eyeing him strangely. “Sorry to startle you, I was calling, but…” but he interrupts her apology, waving his hands dismissively. “Sister Leliana sent this for you, Sir. She said it’s from your bird?”

“My bird?” he stammers, confused, but Maeve just shrugs.

He takes the letter from Maeve’s hand, recognizing Aderyn’s writing of his name at once. _My Bird_? He feels his face flush with the implication, until he realizes that Leliana was probably referring to the raven that delivered it—and he wonders if the spymaster had somehow intercepted it before it came directly to his office like it did before. “Thank you, you are dismissed.”

The letter is still sealed, but he knows that if Leliana really diverted the bird, then she most certainly had read it already, and he frowns, annoyed; the spymaster still hadn’t gotten out of her head the misplaced idea that he wanted more from his relationship with the Inquisitor beyond professional camaraderie, and that both of them would crash and burn because of it.

Besides, the Spymaster knows Aderyn would never send sensitive info through birds; the Inquisitor never encodes her letters, much to the Leliana’s exasperation. Which means this was personal.

He really needed to have a talk with her about spying on his private business.

The letter is brief and dusty with hot desert sand, Aderyn’s large, flowing penmanship filling the paper in a lopsided upwards slant, and it’s so familiar that it tugs at something in his chest.

He misses her.

 

_‘Cullen,_

_Whoever thought it was a good idea to build a fortress here was completely right: nobody would come all this way if they did not have evil intentions. It’s hot, Cullen. Hot and dry and I have sand in my mouth. There are Venatori troops everywhere and quillbacks and varghests. I swear, there’s a new varghest right there every time we turn around. Poor Solas has been knocked around by them a few too many times. I’m considering driving them to extinction—talk me out of it, please._

_What I am saying is, compared to all of this, wardens were a piece of cake._

_But there’s no way the three of you can convince me to come back to the desert for a very long time._

_Aderyn_

_P.S. I’m kidding. I’ll come back if I really have to. I just need to get all of this sand out of my ~~butt~~ hair, then I’ll feel better. We’re heading to an Oasis nearby. Our reports should arrive soon._

_P.P.S. I got you a keep.’_

 

He hasn’t even finished reading it before he is laughing, and the sound surprises him in the quietness of his office. There are two small brownish animal scales inside and he collects them before placing them carefully in his drawer with a smile. Poor varghests, they won’t know what hit them.

 

* * *

 

_''Aderyn,_

_There’s a ciriane legend that says varghests are manifestations of spirits, sent to bring evildoers to their judgment. Could you please leave one or two unharmed to carry on their sacred duty?_

_The days have been grey around here, this cold, miserable rain relentless. I do believe a bit of warm sunshine would be nice—even if it came along with a ton of sand and a varghest or two._

_Josephine and Leliana coerced me into attending a ‘team building exercise’ with them. Or, as I like to call it, a tea party. I ate way too much cinnamon apple bread for my own good, Josephine was fibbing when she said Antivans can’t get drunk on wine, and Leliana now has a whole new set of intel to blackmail us into doing her bidding. All in all, a fun filled day._

_You would have liked it._

_Come back soon._

_Be safe_

_Cullen.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left out a small part of this chapter's end when I first posted it; I have just added it back, sorry!


	6. Worried all my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They trade stories like caresses — unhurriedly and carefully, each spoken word like a gentle lover’s touch.

Cullen has just finished reading a report on the status of Griffon Wing when Aderyn enters his office. She’s out of her usual leather armor, clothed in soft, flowing blue linen dress, her hair damp from a shower, the darkened tresses loose from her usual and practical ponytail, leaving a wet spot where they touch her shoulders. She is sunburned from her time in the desert, the bridge of her perky little nose and flushed cheeks taken over by a thousand freckles. She looks young, delicate—were it not for the green glow emanating from her uncovered hand, he would have a hard time believing this was the sprightly rogue that faced Corypheus in Haven.

“I-Inquisitor,” he stammers, getting to his feet when he realizes he’d been staring at her, and he can feel his face and neck burning in embarrassment.

“Am I bothering you, Commander?” she asks, approaching his desk with a small smile. “I can come back another time.”

“Never,” he says, and for the first time he curses the lack of seating options on his office. He is about to offer his chair for her, when she takes the decision out of his hands by perching her hips on his desk casually. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I just wanted to return this to you,” she says, and he notices the book on Calenhad she had borrowed before going to the Approach.

“Thank you,” he says, reaching for the offered book. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I did!” she agrees energetically. “The commoner who managed to unite a nation and become a legendary King? Quite thrilling,” she smiles. “It seems I have a soft spot for heroic Fereldan warriors,” she finishes and he gapes hopelessly while she laughs at whatever pitiful face he is making.

“I’m glad,” he manages, gripping the book between shaking hands, and for a second he swears he can still feel the vestigial warmth of her body in it.

“Actually, I came to see if I could borrow another one?” and he knits his brow, confused. He knows for a fact that her room has a huge selection of varied books, and Skyhold has not one but two libraries filled with just about everything. She couldn’t have possibly run out of things to read, so why was she raiding his meager selection?

She’s already moving towards the bookcase, slender hands caressing the dusty titles carefully until she pulls a leather-bound tome.

“ _Ferelden: Folklore and History_?” he lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

“I’m trying to go with the theme,” she blushes, moving back to her perch on his desk. “I was traveling with a Nevarran, a Kirkwaller and a—where _is_ Solas from? — anyway, they weren’t much help for my questions aside for the occasional comments about wet dogs,” she shakes her head fondly.

“Ah, yes. It never gets old,” he chuckles. “Wet dogs and rain and barbaric customs. That’s us.” She eyes him, amused, and he can’t help but to add, “I’ve been away from Ferelden for a long time, Inquisitor; I’m not sure I can be of much help.”

“I don’t believe that,” she shakes her head, “You have that whole ‘Ferelden-bred’ thing going on, Commander. I doubt a few years away from home could take that away from you.”

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know what she means by it; so he just shrugs, “I come from a very small farm in an even smaller village, I’m afraid. Not very familiar with the world at large.”

“Really? You mentioned your family lives in South Reach, but you’re not from there?”

“No. I’m from Honnleath, near Redcliffe.”

“Honnleath,” she whispers, before leafing through her book until she found what she wanted; Honnleath wasn’t important enough to merit an entire chapter on her book, just a single page, and half of it was about the mage Wilhelm and his Golem…

“Actually, Honnleath does have a famous figure,” he begins and she beams.

“Besides you?” she asks, closing the book at turning towards him more fully. It can’t be comfortable for her, leaning on his desk like that, so he nods to his chair and she grins before moving to sit there, getting comfortable.

“Honnleath’s square was home to a lone stone statue. It was huge—at least it seemed so when I was young. The town council used to decorate it for the festivities, the kids played around it and the pigeons called it home.”

“Did _you_ use to play with it?” she asks, and he remembers running around the statue with a stick, pretending it was an apostate, while Bran ran after him in a fit of giggles, and he smiles.

“Yeah, I did. We all did. When the Blight came, Honnleath was overrun by darkspawn; those who could, fled, and the village and surround farms were deserted, the statue abandoned alone at the square,” Aderyn winces, probably worried that his tale is bringing him unpleasant memories, so he quickly continues, moving over the gloomy parts. “That is, until the Hero of Ferelden somehow stumbled upon a control rod and managed to wake the sleeping giant.”

“She what?” she asks, and he laughs at her astonished face.

“Yes. It was actually a deactivated golem, but the children didn’t know that. I had heard the Hero of Ferelden was fighting alongside a golem, but I had no idea it was our statue until years after the Blight was over. My sister wrote to me in Kirkwall saying that it was, impossibly enough, a Blight veteran now, and if it ever learned of my location it would go after me in vengeance for poking her with my sticks while ‘practicing’ to be a Templar,” he finishes and Aderyn laughs and laughs, her face flushing prettily and he smiles, charmed.

“Emma ir abelas,” she says, composing herself, “Now I’ll worry about a huge Golem attacking Skyhold looking for its nemesis,” she says, before falling into a fit of giggles again.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have you to defend me,” he states without thinking. “I-I mean,” he stammers, but Aderyn just laughs again.

“I swear on my honor to defend you against this vindictive foe,” she vows with a grin and he relaxes with a self-deprecating shrug.

She looks so impossibly cozy, sitting on his chair, holding her legs to her chest, all soft curves and amused eyes, her red hair flowing free on her shoulders; and, _Maker_ , he has never seen someone so breathtakingly beautiful. “See, that’s why I need a Fereldan nearby while I read, you can’t learn that from a book,” she says and it takes a moment for her words to register with him.

“Well,” he croaks, his throat suddenly dry. “I’ll be glad to assist you in any way I can, Inquisitor,” he offers and Aderyn nods, before getting to her feet.

“I should probably go,” she says, stretching her slender limbs slowly, and he has a hard time swallowing. “Early morning and all that.”

“Of course,” he says, watching as she walks to the door.

It’s only after she has left that he noticed the book on the corner of his desk. _Ferelden: Folklore and History._ He thinks about following after Aderyn, but then his eyes fall to the corner of his room where piles of debris lie on top of a covered recliner.

And he smiles.

\------

He sees the bubbly grin blossoming on her face when her eyes fall on the recliner—or _chaise longue_ , as Cassandra unhelpfully supplied when she caught him in the middle of cleaning up the area. He was lucky there was no damage to the upholstery, and that Dorian was able to… _magic_ it into cleanliness—though not without _plenty_ of knowing glances, barely concealed smirks and affected pouts.

Maker, it had been a long afternoon.

Still, everything had been worth it when Aderyn arrived at his office the next day to find her book lying neatly above it. He expected her to make a remark, but she just moved towards it like it had always been there, sprawling as if it belonged to her already.

“You forgot your book,” he offers, amused.

“Did I?” she raises an eyebrow and he smirks. “Am I interrupting your work?”

He made damn sure that he had cleaned the pile of urgent reports on his desk as early as possible, but it’s not like he’s going to tell her that. “Nothing that cannot wait until morning,” he says instead, but she just nods perceptively. When has he ever been without work of any kind?

“Are you reading anything?” she asks, and his mind flashes to the three books on Dalish culture and history that are lying by the side of his bed making him company when sleep refused to come.

“I try to, when I manage to find the time,” he answers evasively, and her expectant gaze flusters him. “Just something random, it’s been a while since…” he starts, but, really, it’s not like he was reading them because of _her_.

Really. He wasn’t.

He moves upstairs to grab the book on top of the pile next to his rumpled bed, before heading back downstairs. “May I?” he asks, pointing to the spot next to her on the recliner, as if they weren’t on his office, and Aderyn nods before her eyes fall to the book on his hand.

“ _On Elvhenan_?” she asks, surprised, noting the dog-eared page near the end. “It’s definitely not what I was expecting.”

“Really? And just what were you expecting me to be reading?” he chuckles embarrassedly, turning in his seat towards her.

“I-I don’t know,” she is flustered, a delightful flush taking over her freckled face as she tries to explain herself. “Something about military tactics? Trebuchet calibrations?” she sighs, rolling her eyes self-deprecatingly, and he laughs.

“There are surprisingly few books on Dalish culture. Or not so surprisingly, considering your traditions on oral teachings,” he adds, closing the book and looking at her meaningfully.

She shakes her head with a grin, before closing her own book. “Ar lath’an means ‘this place of love’,” she begins, eyes sparkling with fondness.

That night, he dreams of ancient trees and striking spires; glowing runes and starry skies.

He dreams of her.

 

* * *

 

They trade stories like caresses — unhurriedly and carefully, each spoken word like a gentle lover’s touch.

He tells her about crisp autumn days spent helping his father at harvest time. About his short-lived crush on the neighbor’s eldest daughter, and how he begged his parents to let him keep and care for a stray old dog he found near the farm.

She tells him about travelling on aravels when she was very small, the imposing structures floating elegantly through the woods. About nights spent outside, stargazing, thinking that, even if she could have been anywhere else in the world, she still would have picked to be right there.

And though they don’t have much time for each other—there are still drills, and requisitions, and field missions—they always seem to end up together: sharing seats next to each other at a rowdy table at the tavern, Aderyn’s cheeks becoming rosy with the effect of the alcohol and the heat and all the laughter as the night goes by. Bumping at each other at breakfast, as she tries to persuade him into eating just a bit more. He would take a late night stroll around the battlements and his eyes would find hers across the keep and all the way up to her balcony. She would hide away on cold nights curled on his recliner, a heavy cloak around her slender shoulders and her nose pressed into a random book.

He tries to maintain his distance. He really, really does. Leaves just a bit more space between them on the couch. Hands his books with care not to touch her. Fixes his gaze on the wall whenever she comes too close.

He tells himself over and over that Aderyn is a friendly person, that she makes time for _everybody_ , and not just for him. That when Blackwall pulled her for a dance at the tavern, the fact that she kept stealing glances at Cullen throughout the song meant absolutely nothing. Repeats to himself, whenever the raven would appear at the arrowslit in his office with a new letter from her, that she had probably sent dozens just like that to all her closest friends.

He tells himself the same thing every day, time after time.

Until he can’t.

Despite the sky falling apart, despite his broken mind and her portentous destiny, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him that she could never look at him the way he looks at her…

He starts to worry that maybe she does.

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

“You’re doing that again,” Leliana grumbles, eyeing Josephine askance.

The lulling hum stops abruptly as the ambassador jumps, the feather of her quill hitting her smack-dab in the face. “I-I’m sorry,” she stutters, straightening her posture and directing her attention to a non-descript marker on the corner of the War Table. “I do apologize.”

But Cullen finds himself wanting to pick up on the song, an old, familiar Marcher tune that he had learned in Kirkwall; he has no idea where Josephine would have heard it, but he has to admit she carries the tune well. “Great,” he grumbles, “now that’s going to be in my head all day.”

Aderyn laughs and, just like that, the whole meeting is lost. Josephine blushes and Leliana smiles knowingly and Cullen feels more than a bit lost.

Hawke had returned to Skyhold that morning, bringing a reluctant Warden Alistair in tow. They had tracked the Venatori mage back to Adamant, an abandoned fortress in the Approach, and they needed to act soon.

Adamant was built to last. An impenetrable fortress that withstood countless darkspawn attacks, but one that, hopefully, would not have been restructured against modern siege equipment. And even if they did manage to breach its walls, they still would have to face the countless wardens and abominations inside.

It will not be an easy task.

Aderyn had wanted to lead a stealth attack at first, targeting Erimond and the Warden-Commander before trying to reason with the remaining wardens and minimizing casualties, but they quickly came to the conclusion that the warden contingent was too massive and unpredictable for it to be a viable option.

The only way they could ever hope to win this was to lay siege to the fortress with the Inquisition forces, trying to hold back the abominations as long as they could, while Aderyn and a small team pressed on.

It would be their first real test of strength after Haven’s downfall, and while Cullen had complete confidence in their army, the fact remained that they would face Thedas’ deadliest warriors.

So he worries.

He knows _everybody_ is also worried, of course. Leliana looked like she hadn’t slept since Aderyn returned from the west. Cassandra had destroyed more practice dummies in the last two days than she had the whole time they were in Skyhold so far. Vivienne took to training the battle mages in the valley along with the Templars. Sera had thrown herself into her little pranks with abandon, and nobody was safe in the keep. Bull was driving the Charges to the brink of exhaustion. Varric and Dorian both looked uncharacteristically despondent, each drowning their qualms in their poison of choice, be it a pint of cheap, bitter ale or a decanter of extravagant tevinter wine. Blackwall was in danger of chopping every tree in a five-mile radius. Warden Alistair had holed himself in one of the upper rooms, and hadn’t shown his face so far. Hawke had stationed herself outside the war room, declining their invitation to join them without a single wisecrack.

Which is why Josephine’s impromptu humming disposition seems so bizarre.

Still, Aderyn looks, for the first time today, like her usual vibrant self; he rather prefers the meeting be called short than to keep seeing her uneasy countenance for one more second.

“You will contact the allied nobles about the siege equipment?” he asks again, just before the Ambassador opens the double doors, and Josephine throws him a distracted nod before wrenching Leliana out of the room.

Like he said, bizarre.

“She is probably feeling like she’s living on borrowed time,” Aderyn whispers, and he can’t hide the shudder that racks his body at the feeling of her warm breath on his ear.

“I’m sorry?” he croaks in a daze, his hand clawing at his neck.

“Josephine,” Aderyn says, as if this was perfect enough of an answer, and when he stares blankly at her, she sighs, taking a step impossibly closer to him. “I was wondering if we could talk. Alone.”

He almost can’t hear her voice over his heart hammering in his chest.

“Alone?” he parrots dumbly, his power of speech seemingly vanished for the time being. “I mean, of course, Inquisitor,” he says, looking around the empty room.

“ _Inquisitor_ ,” she asks, furrowing her brows thoughtfully. “Do you realize you call me Aderyn in your letters?”

Did he? He tries to think back to the numerous notes he had sent her throughout the year: requisition forms needing her approval, reports on the status of field missions… All very proper and professional and to the point.

And then he thinks of the few letters they have exchanged these past few months; brief little messages carried to and from the furthest corners of Thedas, frozen highlands of the Dales and Orlesian deserts alike, tied to a jet-black raven with an ill-advised crush or hand-delivered by travel-worn couriers. A few carefree words on her rootless life on the road, away from base; a careful passing comment on his life in the stronghold, away from her.

Maker’s balls, he did, didn’t he? He let his foolish mind wander away without proper rein, spilled his reckless longings in messy scrawls on a rumpled parchment.

“Forgive me, my lady, I never meant to--“ But Aderyn, no, Inquisitor Lavellan, just interrupts him with a gentle hand on his arm and a slight shake of her head.

“I _like_ that you call me Aderyn,” she says. “Nobody ever does. I’m Inquisitor, or Boss, or Lavellan, or Your Worship… I don’t think I ever even heard my name being spoken here.”

He is well aware of the loss of familiarity a title brings. He had stopped being Cullen a long time ago. From the moment he left home and joined the Order, he had been _a_ _Templar_ : faceless, nameless, unattached to past familial bonds, without immediate future prospects. Then he had been _The_ _Knight-Captain_ , an untouchable figure, feared by mages and Templars alike, both a pariah and an insider in the worst possible way, who inspired unbounded hate and blind allegiance in equal measures.

Now he is _The_ _Commander_ , and he is supposed to be unwavering, and reliable, and rational, and all those words that must mean _sane_. And though he is sure everybody can see their military leader crumbling to pieces before their eyes, he knows they still don’t see Cullen, the eager farmboy who loved dogs, hated the cold and who is really afraid that he is losing his mind.

And then he looks at Aderyn—Inquisitor Lavellan—and thinks that maybe she could.

“It’s not my place,” he finally says, and watches as the spark goes out in her eyes.

“But I want it to be,” she whispers, her small hand tightening on his arm. “Cullen, I find myself thinking of you… all the time.”

Oh, it would be so easy. So damn easy to close his eyes and live on borrowed time. To overlook the fact that, to her, he was probably an object of youthful infatuation at best and a willing warm body at worst. To pay no heed to the fact that theirs would never be a story with a happy ending: she would eventually grow out of her misguided soft spot towards him, he would forget her to lyrium madness. He would fall by an enemy’s sword, shield crushed and skin shredded, nameless in a battlefield. She would willingly sacrifice her life to save an uncaring world.

They would ignite brightly, and then crash and burn—and he worries his damaged heart could not handle another blow.

Whatever the bitter end, living on borrowed time just doesn’t seem enough.

“You’re the Inquisitor,” he says at last, taking one step away from her and trying to disregard the pain in her expressive eyes. “We are at war. I don’t think it’s possible.” Her hand falls listlessly to her side, but he can still feel the warmth of her fingers on his flesh. “Whatever’s between us, there’s no future in it.”

“I see,” she says, and the way her voice breaks will forever be seared onto his mind. “I thought we — I was mistaken.” For a man who wanted nothing more than to keep her from hurt, he was doing a disgraceful job of it.

He closes his eyes, grounding the heel of his hand against his temple as he tries to drive the demons away.

When he manages to open them again, lifetimes later, she is gone.

 

* * *

 

The two of them are caught in a painful dance of avoidance and longing, and Cullen doesn’t know how to deal with it.

There were moments when his eyes met hers over the table, all bright and lively with unconcealed mirth over some inane thing, and he could swear the past few days had never happened: instead of lonely evenings and awkward meetings, there was breathless laughter and shared books and late night talks. But then she would remember their predicament, or he would, and her eyes would dimmer, and he would stammer, and the room would get colder.

He very much doubts they had managed to dodge letting the closest members of the Inquisition in on their mess; he worries that they’ll approach him to _talk_ , and is forever thankful that none of them do.

Well, no one but Cole. At least he _thinks_ that’s what the boy intended.

He had been trying to memorize topographic maps of the Approach, when he realized he was not alone in office anymore— in the corner of the room, seating on Aderyn’s usual spot in his couch, was the spirit boy.

“You really shouldn’t do that, Cole,” Cullen says with a tired sigh. “With tempers running so high, you could get hurt sneaking on someone’s bedroom like this.”

“Tempers high, tumbling, tensing, tiring. Bright eyes like a balm to blistered metal skin,” the boy whispers, breathless, and Cullen wants to scream.

“Cole, please. Not now,” he grumbles, pushing the papers away from him. “I really can’t deal with this right now.”

Cole tilts his head appraisingly, and Cullen is sure he will mumble another obscure train of thought plucked from his muddled mind, but the boy just hunches his shoulders dejectedly, “I want to help.”

“I know. You can’t,” Cullen says gently, leaving his desk to sit near the boy. “But thank you for trying.”

They sit there, shoulder to shoulder for a long while. His headache has gotten progressively worse as the day wore on, and he knows the nightmares will be relentless that night. He was trying so hard not to break, not to fall; to be solid and stoical, to lead them to victory, to keep her safe. He wanted— _he wanted_ …

“Knock-knock.”

The sound is so jarring in the oppressive silence of the room that it takes Cullen a couple of seconds to process the noise. “I’m sorry?” he frowns, confused.

“See, it’s a door. A make-believe door, and I’m knocking on it. Knock-knock,” the boy says as if it was obvious, and _Maker, why was he talking to a spirit again_?

“Uh,” Cullen swallows, shaking his head to displace the thought from his head. “Who’s there?”

“A broken pencil.”

“A broken pencil who?”

“Never mind,” Cole finishes with a heavy sigh. “It’s _pointless_.”

There is silence for a beat. Two. And then a surprised laugh tears itself away from Cullen’s chest. He laughs until he is left gasping, shoulders shaking with mirth. “That was _awful_ ,” he snorts, wiping an errant tear.

But Cole just grins proudly, looking way too much like a regular kid at that moment. “Varric says I should ‘lighten up’. I’ve been practicing.”

“I think you got it,” he smiles, getting up and stretching his achy muscles. There was a pleasant warmth in his belly, a kind of drowsiness that only came after an explosive laugh, and for the first time today he felt he could actually go to sleep.

He reaches the staircase and had just turned to bid goodnight to the boy, when a snippet of a long lost memory comes to him: a warm day, breathless laughter, pale skin red from the late afternoon sun. Mia lost to giggles even before she had finished the joke, Rosie just lost, period.

“Hey, Cole?” Cullen asks with a fond grin. “Why do cows have bells?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took this long to get this chapter out-- and it's an angsty one to boot.   
> Hopefully you're still reading this. I'd love to hear your feedback!


	7. Let it Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adamant has endured, silent and proud, throughout the ages.
> 
> A testament to the Warden’s deadly power against the darkspawn, its walls are home to countless memories: the commanding shadows of mighty griffons at their weyrs; the lively racket of thousands of wardens training in the main courtyard; the ominous shrill of the tainted creatures from the abyss clawing their way upwards. Costly victory, obstinate vigilance and heartbreaking sacrifice, Adamant has witnessed it all.

 

Adamant has endured, silent and proud, throughout the ages.

A testament to the Warden’s deadly power against the darkspawn, its walls are home to countless memories: the commanding shadows of mighty griffons at their weyrs; the lively racket of thousands of wardens training in the main courtyard; the ominous shrill of the tainted creatures from the abyss clawing their way upwards. Costly victory, obstinate vigilance and heartbreaking sacrifice, Adamant has witnessed it all.

Cullen knows it needs to be taken down, and he knows he should be thankful that its ancient walls may fall with relative ease against Inquisition’s trebuchets. But now that he glimpses the mythic fortress looming in the distant horizon, the tarnished griffon statues a silent bastion at the heart of the barren desert wasteland, he only feels hopelessness.

If the Grey Wardens have fallen so far from their original purpose—just like Blood Mages and Red Templars and Tevinter Magisters—who’s to say the Inquisition will not follow their shameful footsteps?

And then he hears Aderyn’s melodic voice far away amidst the commotions of siege preparation, cutting through all the noise like a long forgotten song... and he knows without a doubt that, if he believes in one thing, he believes in her.

“You really got that tortured Templar look down pat, don’t you?” Hawke’s voice drags him from his mind with a jolt.

“Not a Templar, Hawke,” he sighs, going through the motions of their standard interactions. “What happened? Ran out of trouble to cause in the camp?”

Hawke smiles assuaged, as if the balance of the world rested in the shoulders of a bickering mage and Templar.

He had been leaning against a withered tree, away from the camp, licking his self-inflicted wounds alone, and he really didn’t need Hawke goading him into spilling his stupid thoughts. "You should rest. This is going to be brutal," he says, hoping she would leave him to his worries.

But she just pushes closer, crossing her arms indolently. “Oh, please. I got this one in the bag,” she says with a snort. “Demons and an all-powerful force manipulated by a lying madman? Been there, done that. Gimme something new to work with.”

She is not entirely wrong.

“You know,” she says when he declines to answer, “If I were a betting woman, I’d put all my savings on your Inquisitor today.”

“You _are_ a betting woman, Hawke.”

“That’s right, I am,” she smiles as if the thought had just come to her. “This reminds me: we _must_ play a round of Wicked Grace when we return. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your marked absence from the tavern.”

“Hawke, I don’t—“

“Come on, Curly. One round? For old time’s sake,” she entreats, walking backwards to the camp. “I mean, an ex-Templar, a mage Champion and a rogue Inquisitor enter into a tavern; there’s got to be a joke in there somewhere.”

There just might be.

 

* * *

 

“Do you have some time?” she asks, and he tries not to flinch at her sudden approach, stops in the middle of donning his breastplate. The dawn will come soon, and they must press forward: they have a hard battle to fight if they want to see the next day.

The last thing he needs is to talk to her right now; it’s also the one thing he’s most desperate to do.

“Always,” he says, despite himself, the word tumbling in a haggard breath.

Aderyn blinks, as if she expected a different answer. And considering the last few weeks, he is not surprised.

She moves to stand beside him, eyes fixed on the floor, and he takes the opportunity to watch her. He knows she is worn-out, has glimpsed her staring at the skies at odd hours more nights than not during their travel to the Approach. But now, standing beside him, she looks deadly and resolute. Feral; a regal bird of prey looking for its next target.

She looks _exquisite_.

 “Are we ready?” she asks, and all his thoughts come to a screeching halt.

Inquisitor. Commander. War. End of the world.

_Focus, Cullen. Wasn’t this the whole point of all the heartache he had put them through?_

He has tried to be a calming presence during meetings, leaving their personal matters behind him. He committed himself fully to organizing the Inquisition Forces, rehashed battle plans until every soldier could recite them in their sleep. They have the numbers, they have the resources, they have a plan.

They will prevail.

_Aderyn_ will prevail.

“We are,” he says simply, and waits for her to look at him. She doesn’t. “Aderyn, we are ready.”

She starts at the sound of her name, her eyes meeting him fully for the first time in a long while. It should fluster him, her warm nearness, her direct gaze, but it doesn’t; for the first time since their discussion, he feels steady and sure.

“We will carve you a path inside and we will finish this,” he avows.

“Good,” she says, turning to leave. She takes one step away from him, two, and then stops at the opening if his tent. “Be careful out there,” she says without facing him, and then she is gone.

Taking a deep breath, he leaves his spot to join his soldiers.

And they march on.

 

* * *

 

They had the upper hand. They had control of the battlements, they had cleared most of the fortress, engaged dissenting Wardens and aided the Inquisitor in reaching Warden-Commander Clarel. They would prevail.

Until they didn’t.

He follows the Archdemon and reaches the west walkway over the main courtyard.

Just in time to see her fall.

 

* * *

 

There are demons to be slain and a fortress to take. There are wounded soldiers to guard, and near-death Wardens to assist.

He has a magister to kill.

He cannot afford to stop.

His sword cuts an implacable path, drawing blood and ichor and tears. He throws his heavy shield to one side, gripping the hilt with both hands as he lunges forward, bringing his sword in a lethal downward blow. Rage Demons surround him, his skin blistering inside his armor from the overpowering heat. They press in on his body, clawing at his arms, and he will kill them all, push them all back to whatever hellhole they came from, and he strikes again and again and again…

Until he sees him, Erimond, cowering in a corner of the battlements like the spineless, weakling rat he was.

And then he can feel it in his veins, the power, the righteousness, the control; feels it drawing close to the surface, his skin breaking into goosebumps as a blinding pillar of light erupts from within him, smiting everything in its deadly path.

It is over as abruptly as it began, the vestigial lyrium burning swiftly, and he drops to his knees amongst fallen enemies, spent.

But it is enough to allow their forces to press on even further, taking control of the makeshift-altar.

“Cullen!” his head fells sluggish, and the sound comes from far away. But Rylen is right there, gripping his shoulders and hauling him to his feet, dragging him back towards the destroyed main entrance. They are almost halfway to the camp when Cullen briefly comes to his senses, his stamina slowly beginning to replenish itself. “We have to go back,” he says, pushing Rylen away with surprising force.

“It’s over,” Rylen says, recovering from his stagger and grasping Cullen’s shoulder insistently. “Adamant is ours.”

They prevailed. Hadn’t he sworn her they would?

And yet, she is gone.

 

* * *

 

Rylen and Bull push his body back to the cot, struggling with the buckles and straps of his armor as Dorian’s hands envelop him in a cool green glow of healing.

“I say we knock him out,” he hears Bull grumble wearily, and Cullen feels big, heavy hands pressing on his throat with slight more force than strictly necessary.

“And deal with a murderous Cullen later on? No thank you,” Dorian objects. “Though it would definitely make it easier for me. Damn fool keeps purging my spells.”

They manage to divest him of his breastplate and gauntlets, until Cullen finally gets a grip on Bull’s wrists, pushing him away. “Okay, got it, hands off,” the qunari says, raising his hands away from him.

“What are you doing here wasting time with me? You should all be out there, with the forces!” Cullen growls, pushing himself off the cot. The action is cut short, though, as his vision fails him and he drops back to the dusty makeshift bed. “Maker.”

“Just take it easy, Cullen,” Rylen says gently, handing him a cup of tepid water. “That smite almost killed you.”

“How did you manage it with such low reserves of lyrium anyway?” Dorian asks, finishing his spell with a flourish. “Once a Templar, always a Templar?” he smirks, and then takes a step back as Cullen turns to glower at him. “Just teasing, dear.”

Thing is, he shouldn’t have been able to let out a Holy Smite, nor any other Templar ability for that matter; hadn’t been able for a couple months now, in fact.

The first time he called for a purge and came up empty was a day he slept soundly, heart light.

Maker, would this struggle never end?

“Erimond is still alive,” he says instead. “Why aren’t you out there?”

“Cullen, it’s over. We have Erimond in custody, the remaining wardens have surrendered and were recruited to the Inquisition.”

“Recruited? On whose orders?”

The two warriors stare at each other mutely, and Dorian lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Who do you think? That little elf has more lives than a damned cat.”

 

* * *

 

There is raucous celebration and shell-shocked silence in equal measure across the camp. A few soldiers smile and jostle each other near bonfires, fists hitting their chests proudly as Cullen walks by, unconcerned that their Commander is running around half-naked and rumpled in the cool desert night, searching for a woman that should have been dead.

His feet drag him to her tent, but he can’t bring himself to push the flaps open.

What if they were wrong? What if he enters it to find it a silent, dusty tomb?

He can’t hear any noises inside, everything is perfectly still, and his heart is crumpling to the floor; and then the tarp is torn from his fingers as the tent is opened from within. He vaguely notices Varric pushing by him in silence, head cast down, and Cassandra moving from her spot near the back. But all his senses focus on _her_.

Aderyn is sitting on the cot, holding her head on her hands, fingers curled tightly in her hair, knees drawn upwards. She looks so small, so fragile…

So _alive_.

He takes a step forward, but is stopped by the Seeker with a firm hand on his chest and a glare the size of the breach outside. “I’ll be back soon,” she says in warning, as she pushes by him.

He tries another step forward slowly, all his body screaming at him to run to Aderyn, to gather her into his arms and hold her tight. He doesn’t.

Then she lifts her head up to him, surprise and relief and pain waging war on her features, and he sees her eyes welling up with unshed tears.

“Aderyn,” he chokes, approaching her slowly, needing to touch her, to feel her warmth, to hear her voice. He reaches a hand near her face, but he just can’t bring himself to make contact; he’s not allowed, unwanted. He can’t, he can’t—

She closes the distance, placing her face on his hand with a relieved sigh, as the tears finally fall. The simple touch is all it takes, and he is sitting beside her in a second, gathering her safely in his arms as she hides her face in his neck with a shuddering breath. “I’m fine,” she whispers through her tears. “I’m fine.”

He swears right then and there that he will never made her feel like she has to hide her pain from him ever again.

Later, they will talk. She will tell him about the fade, and Divine Justinia and the Nightmare.

She will tell him about Marian Hawke’s sacrifice.

They will grieve, they will cry, they will rage.

But all of that will come later.

Now, he just gathers her close, and leans back on the cot. And he keeps watch as she finally falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t realized he had dozed off until he senses someone near. His hand moves quickly, gripping tightly over someone’s wrist, and he opens his eyes to find a surprised Cassandra, caught in the act of trying to cover him and a sleeping Aderyn with a blanket. “I did not mean to wake you,” she whispers, breaking free from his firm grasp.

Cullen tries to sit up, but Aderyn’s hands close on his shirt and she mumbles in her sleep, burrowing further into him. He lays back down with a tired sigh, letting her find a comfortable position. “You didn’t,” he says, rubbing his eyes. Then he remembers Cassandra must have been as shook up by their ordeal in the Fade as the sleeping woman in his arms, and he grimaces. “Are you okay?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the Seeker says with a tired sigh, looking much older than her age. She eyes Aderyn nestled into his chest, his shirt bunched securely in her clutched hands, and something like a smile, but not quite, crosses the Seeker’s face.

She leaves the tent silently, and he hears her barking at some poor soul outside not to let anyone inside until morning. So he gathers Aderyn close and tries to fall asleep. They are leaving early in the morning, and, with the wardens’ arrival and Erimond’s judgment, he doesn’t think he’ll have much chance to rest when they arrive at Skyhold.

He doesn’t know just how right he is.

 

* * *

 

“You always knew she was a mage, why didn’t you come after her?”

He has been back at Skyhold for exactly half a day. Aderyn and her inner circle of friends had left the Approach the following morning after Adamant’s victory, putting as much distance between them and their nightmare as their mounts allowed, but Cullen had remained to make the slower journey back along with his soldiers.

He was exhausted, filthy, and starving, and all he wanted was to take these goddamn boots _off_ ; the last thing he needed was to add heartache to injury.

Also, he thought he would be the last person Varric would chose to talk about Marian Hawke right now.

But here he is, face unusually drawn and a tankard of something dark on each hand, closing the door to Cullen’s office with his heel.

“Varric,” he says, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his hands. “I’m-“

“I know you are sorry,” the dwarf grumbles, slamming one of the tankards on the table, and spilling ale all over the pile of important documents there. “Shit. Everybody is fucking sorry ‘round here.” He takes a long pull of his cup, one eye open and gazing at him steadily until Cullen reaches for the other drink and takes a swig. “I feel like a goddamn widow,” he says when he finishes, wiping the froth off his mouth with an entirely too forceful gesture.

He knows how Varric feels; felt it in his bones when he saw Aderyn fall into the chasm below. He remembers the feeling of despair, of rage, of- _of nothingness_.

“So,” Varric continues, leaning against his desk with a far too casual pose. “Why didn’t you?”

“In the beginning, Hawke was careful to only use her staff as a melee weapon. Later, when I finally figured it out, she was way too influential for me to do anything,” Cullen says, a practiced answer he has given a thousand times before, including to Varric himself during their hellish boat trip back to Ferelden.

But, this time, Varric only snorts, eyeing him knowingly. “Really?”

“She was proficient with her staff, knew how to dodge attacks well, and had that roguish air about her. I assumed that’s what she was.”

“Really?” the dwarf asks again. “For three whole years? While she sauntered around with Blondie and Daisy all over the Gallows, huge glowing staffs strapped to their backs?”

“I had more pressing concerns at first than to take notice of Marian Hawke running around with your ragtag crew.”

Varric barks a humorless laugh, and drains his tankard in one swallow. “You knew.”

Well, shit.

“I knew,” Cullen sighs, tired, finishing the dark bitter ale. “Maker, of course I knew.”

“So?”

“What do you want me to say, Varric? The first time I saw her, she saved my life against an abomination. I couldn’t just drag her to the Gallows, no matter how much she dared me,” he says, reaching for a half-full bottle of wine and refilling their tankards, much to Varric’s dry amusement. “She helped me see I was being dreadfully bigoted. Prevented me from going down a path without hope of redemption. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her,” his voice breaks in a pitiful noise, and he drains his cup empty to try to cover it.

Fuck.

Aderyn, Cassandra, Varric and Solas—along with an uncharacteristically silent Warden Alistair—had recounted their tragic tumble through the Fade that following morning after the battle, detailing the horrors they had endured, the Spirit that might or might not have been the Divine guiding them, the trial with the Nightmare demon. Hawke’s sacrifice.

He knew their odds weren't good. But after everything they had underwent in Kirkwall, all the struggle, and chaos and sadness, he had almost taken Hawke for granted: that she would always be around, fixing everything that was wrong in the first place, while causing all sorts of trouble at the same time. Acerbic and bossy and always on the go, rustling feathers and saving the day. There was no one in the city who hadn’t own her gratitude—himself included.

_Maker, him most of all._

“What happened, Varric?” he sighs, rubbing his burning eyes. “What the fuck happened over there?” He asks, but he already knows the answer; Hawke would gladly throw herself into danger if it meant helping someone. That wry, caustic exterior hid a fiercely compassionate heart, and an appalling disregard for her own safety.

Varric must come to the same conclusion, because he reaches for the bottle to refill their glasses once again, clinking them together and watching dispassionately as most of the wine dripped over the papers. “To fucking heroes.”

They drink in silence, and Cullen can almost hear Hawke’s sharp, self-deprecating laugh at their choice of eulogy. 

“You know,” Varric finally says, eyeing Cullen thoughtfully, “Hawke and I had an ongoing bet on whether you two would ever do the deed.”

It’s the last thing Cullen expected to hear right now, and he chokes on the wine in his surprise. He coughs until he is breathless as Varric cackles and bumps him on the back, and he doesn’t know if his face is burning more from being winded or from the embarrassment.

“ _What?_ ”

Varric is still laughing away, as he picks up the bottle only to find it empty, and Cullen glowers at him until he stops with an amused grin. “What? If she could stumble into bed with both Broody and Blondie and still get them to work together with only minor scuffles, I’m sure she could entice the always prim-and-proper Knight-Captain. She had her ways.”

“She _what_?” Cullen repeated, flushing again. This was not the conversation he wanted to be having right now; Hawke’s sexual encounters were definitely not his business.

“You know Hawke: I never had to make shit up about her, the truth was always more interesting.”

“Well… That explains a lot, really,” Cullen finally says, scratching the back of his neck.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why would she would make a point of talking to me whenever she went to the Gallows, despite the whole apostate-templar quandary? Why would she antagonize Meredith and myself and still drop by wanting to help? If she wanted to win a bet, she-“

“Oooh no,” his mouth snaps shut as Varric interrupts him with a snort. “You don’t get it, Curly. _I_ was the one betting on you two.”

It takes Cullen a couple of seconds to understand him, and he frowns, “You bet she could seduce me? And she--what? Thought she couldn’t?”

“I bet that whole tension between you two would end up in tousled sheets. She said you were too respectable to ever consider it.”

“You mean, she thought I was uptight?”

“Well, you _are_ ,” Varric grins, “but no, that’s not what she meant.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know,” Varric shrugs. “I guess she always thought you were one of the good ones,” he says, and Cullen is transported to that night in this office, as Hawke said those same words to him.

He never took on her invitation for drinks and a round of cards at the tavern, did he? Maker, why didn’t he?

“I always assumed she was cheating, trying to win by never hitting on you,” Varric continues, unaware of Cullen’s inner turmoil. “But now I’m thinking-“

“What?” Cullen asks as Varric falls silent, but the dwarf just shrugs with a sigh.

“Thank you for humoring me,” Varric says instead, nodding to their empty cups. “The people are all mourning the _Champion_ ; the invincible hero, the lead role of a thousand adventures, who closes her story arch in the most tragic of ways: as a _martyr_ ,” he grunts. “People love their stories, after all. But you knew her. Before. As a scrawny girl trying to keep her family afloat, and her friends safe. Before riches from doomed expeditions and recovered noble titles and city-wide recognition. Before she smeared blood on her face to try and maintain that champion persona. I really needed that.”

“She loved you, Varric,” Cullen says simply. For all of their talk about Hawke’s dalliances, one thing always remained the same through their days at Kirkwall: she always had Varric on her side.

Varric smiles brokenly, giving Cullen a nod of his head as a goodbye of sorts. But, just before he closes the door behind him, he turns to Cullen again. “I keep waiting for a letter to arrive, you know? A note saying that she loved when a plan worked out, and that she was _definitely_ not cleaning up the mess the Nightmare left behind.” He drums his thumb on the door, examining its cracks with undue attention. “I’m afraid I’ll always wait for it.”

He turns to go with a sigh, but Cullen stops him. “Varric. This letter. If it ever arrives... will you let me know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't prepared to feel Hawke's death as acutely as I did, and Varric almost demanded to commiserate with Cullen; I'm sorry that this chapter ended up sadder than I planned... :(


	8. I’ve always been afraid of heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Cullen Rutherford.
> 
> The letters come off irregular, unsteady, unfamiliar; the muscle memory associated with the action simply… gone.

Their legs are tangled together, sweaty and warm and _wonderful_ in the cool desert night, and if Cullen died right there, he would die a happy man. Her heart beats strong against his chest, a constant, reassuring rhythm that threatens to lull him right back to sleep.

He forces his eyes open, though, not wanting to miss a single moment of this—of her, secure in his arms. With a drowsy smile, he looks down to press a kiss on her hair…

To find dark, dead eyes staring back at him.

He jolts awake with a groan, the damp sheets wrapped around his feverish skin like a grave. The night is cold outside, still and silent. The past days had been incredibly strenuous; after a whole month away, he was overloaded with urgent tasks. There was a great influx of warden joining their ranks, and there was lodging and supplies and training to consider. There were wounded soldiers that needed attention, and letters to be written to the families of fallen ones. Erimond was brought to judgment and locked away to be forgotten, in the dungeons beneath Skyhold.

He was sure he would pass out from the exhaustion—which would be a small reprieve from the latest nightmare that had plagued him night after night since Adamant. No such luck, it seemed.

_It didn’t happen like that_ , his mind says over and over, trying to find its grip on reality.

Truth was, while the day after didn’t really unfurl like his nightmare—thank the Maker—the reality wasn’t really _good_.

They had woken up together in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat; Aderyn’s small hands still gripping his shirt possessively. He had no idea what to say - no idea what the night had even meant. So he just placed a kiss to her forehead and watched sorrowfully as she got up, got dressed and left the tent in silence.

She returned to Skyhold not long after, without looking backwards, taking all the air in his lungs with her.

And now he’s been back for a week, and she has yet to meet his eyes. Aderyn keeps fleeing the meetings in the War Room as soon as they are over, eschewing having her meals at the Great Hall whenever he is there, ducking into the nearest room whenever they catch sight of one another. It feels just like after _the talk_ , only ten times worse—he now knows how it feels like to hold her, _to be held by_ _her_.

If feels like she still has his shirt in a tight grasp, pulling him inexorably closer, refusing to let him go.

It’s no wonder he ends up at her door.

The Main Hall is eerily still: no boisterous nobles prattling about everything, no soldiers coming and going. There is a guard posted at the main entrance, and Cullen briefly wonders if he was the same one he had encountered the last time he was here with Aderyn; he doesn’t bat an eyelash at the sight of his Commander heading towards the Inquisitor’s chambers before dawn.

He opens the outer door, crosses the dusty corridor ( _they’ve got to tidy this corner_ , he thinks idly), and it’s only after he has knocked on the inner door that he starts to wonder _just what in the Void was he doing here?_

But by then it’s already too late; he takes a step back, turning to go away, when her voice drifts from upstairs. “Is there anyone there?”

Fuck.

His brain begs him to _just go_. Walk away, back to his damp sheets and caved-in ceiling and lonely life. Wasn’t this what he wanted in the first place? Professional detachment by day as he tried hard not to moan her name at night?

“Hello?” she says, her voice close, just behind the door now.

He opens his mouth, but his voice refuses to work, and her name claws ineffectually against his chest. He leans his forehead against the door, the wood cool against his skin.

He hears her going back upstairs, and a heavy weight sets in his ribcage.

_Coward._

With a haggard sigh, he turns to go.

“Cullen?”

He stops. Turns to find her peeking through the cracked door, all sleepy-eyes and mussed red hair, a confused frown marring her forehead, and he is enchanted by how it moves the delicate tattoo there.

“What… Is everything okay?” she asks again, opening the door further and leaning against its frame.

“Yes,” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat self-consciously. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.” It’s the truth, but the absurdness of the sentiment makes him want to crawl away and hide.

“In the middle of the night?” she asks, and he can feel the blush burning against his cheeks and neck.

“I’m sorry,” he falters, “I-I should go.”

But she reaches out, holding his lyrium-cold hand against her warm one in a silent plea for him to stay. “No, you were right. I wasn’t… I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh.”

“I haven’t really slept at all.”

Of course. Here he is, foolishly longing for the safety of her arms, while she is dealing with the aftermath of a _literal_ Nightmare.

“It’s understandable. What you went through in the Fade, Hawke’s death. You don’t have to push yourself into feeling fine. It’s okay to break down for a while.”

Now, if only he could take his own advice.

Aderyn gives him a sad smile as if she could hear his thoughts, gives their joined hands a slight tug; he obligingly takes a step closer, watches entranced as her smiles widens gradually.

“I’m sorry about how I acted that day,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want to push you into doing something you didn’t want to-“

“Aderyn,” he interrupts her, shaking his head slowly. “You didn’t.”

“You made your feelings clear. I didn’t mean to disregard it and…”

“You didn’t,” he says again, firmly. “I wanted you in my arms just as much.”

That silences her, but he is already regretting the confession. It definitely would not make things better, not with his mind still trapped in his latest nightmare, and her scars for the latest ordeal not yet healed.

Still, it’s so damn hard to keep looking backwards when the vision in front of him is so alluring; she looks so beautiful, so hopeful, and it takes all his strength not to lean down and kiss her. He stands on the ledge now, hesitant and terrified: wanting to close his eyes and take the leap just as much as he wants to run away.

“I was trying to give you space,” she sighs, when he remains resolutely still.

How can he tell her that he doesn’t want space? That he wants her near him, in his room, in his bed, in his life? It sounds so simple in his head—boy likes girl, wants to be together. So simple, so easy.

But then you add in the kinks: addiction and madness and duty, and it all crumbles to their feet like a bad fairytale.

His free hand moves to cradle her face and he leans his forehead against hers. His heart beats desperately against his chest, as if it wanted to escape and join her.

“You should get some sleep,” she says at last, pulling away, and he blinks in a daze.

“Yes. Of course,” he whispers, grudgingly taking a step backwards.

_Borrowed time_ , he remembers; and everyday ‘borrowed time’ seems more and more tempting.

 

* * *

 

There is a pile of documents on his desk. A large pile, if he says so, the top page slightly damp and curling at the edges.

Something important.

He grips the quill tighter, watches impassively as a drop of black ink smudges the paper beneath it, takes the shape of a bunny, no, a bird. No. A demon.

_His name._

He has to sign his name.

One heartbeat. Then two.

He realizes he’s been holding his breath for a while, takes a gasping mouthful of air, his heart booming in his ear. And then—

_Commander Cullen Rutherford._

The letters come off irregular, unsteady, unfamiliar; the muscle memory associated with the action simply… gone.

He hurls the quill with all his strength, watching it as it flies through the air and lands in the recliner without making a sound—and the lack of satisfaction in the feat sends him into a tailspin of rage. The papers in his desk are the first to go, and he pushes them to the floor with a growl. Picks up a dagger and sends it straight to the head of a dummy. His forehead is matted with sweat, his breath haggard. He pulls on his hair until it hurts, willing his body to at least remember pain, if anything.

_I have faced armies with You as my shield. And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence._

_When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me, And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then, in the pounding of my heart, I hear the glory of creation._

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall… I shall…_

But nothing comes.

He pulls the drawer open. Takes the wooden box out.

He can feel the song calling to him; feels his veins vibrating with need, and Maker, will this need ever end?

It takes one look for Cassandra to understand what has happened, and she follows him inside the armory in blessed silence, sending the men inside scrambling away with a pointed glance.

He clenches his fist, feels the tendons throbbing at the tension. Cuts Casandra off before she even has a chance to open her mouth.

“ _Don’t_. Don’t start,” he barks and the Seeker blinks, stunned. “I can’t do this. You know I can’t. Let’s not fool ourselves into thinking that I’ll ever be _fine_.”

“Cullen…”

“Cassandra, I _can’t_ ,” he begs, and he can’t quite seem to manage leaving the desperation out of his voice.

“Listen to me,” she says, with surprisingly gentleness. “Look where you are, how far you have come. If anyone can overcome this, Cullen, it is you. I’m certain of it.”

“Empty words, Cassandra. I’m no different from those who have attempted to quit before me. And the endgame is also the same. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to let all of you down-,“ his voice breaks, and he runs his hands through his hair in despair. “If I’m unable to fulfil what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this. I will not be a burden-”

“A _burden_?” Cassandra scoffs, incredulously, before moving into his personal space, index finger pointed to his chest forcefully. “Cullen, you are the most stubborn man I have ever met. You won’t let anybody help you! You _cannot_ -“

“I forgot my name!” The words burst from his chest without him meaning them to, and the seeker sucks in a breath, startled. Maker, he didn’t want to share this latest indignity; wanted to just crawl away to disappear in relative peace. “Just for a moment. But it was… Cassandra, it was _gone_.” He sighs, rubbing his face raw. “Can you be sure it won’t happen again? Or get worse? Can you be sure that I am still fit to lead?”

“Of course you are-“

“Can you be _sure_?”

He can see her ready to confirm the placating lie. Sees her open her mouth to say it, shoulders straight and head held high. But then Cassandra exhales, her shoulders sagging as her hands fall limply to her sides, confirming all his deepest, darkest fears. But what she says next is the last thing he is expecting.

“I ask myself, day after day, if we are not killing you.”

It takes a couple of seconds for her words to register, and he frowns. “What?”

“The Inquisition demands you to give it all, Cullen. I’ve watch you forgoing meals and sleep for another hour of training, one more inspection, one last calibration. I know you will drain yourself dry if it means the Inquisition will prosper.” The seeker groans, shaking her head. “And I know you would give up all you have accomplished and start taking lyrium again in a heartbeat, if it means you’ll do _more_.”

He thinks of the opened box in his desk. Of the blue vial inside it.

And how he had gone as far as uncorking it tonight.

“It’s relentless,” he says at last.

Cassandra could spin it anyway she wanted, to make him look braver and more laudable. They could all say that he wanted lyrium to help the Inquisition—to be faster, more alert, work harder, longer.

Truth was, he wanted it because he was an addict. He wanted the familiar cool fire burning in his veins, and the song drowning every ache, every sad memory, every defeat. He wanted to be able to let it all roll off of his shoulders, to win or lose and still be ready for a new battle, day after day.

He wanted to forget the fact that he was forgetting himself. Be blissfully oblivious in a haze of blue as his identity was chipped slowly away.

Much better than going through it cognizant; to know he was losing himself little by little, and be powerless to stop it.

It was the coward’s way out, and that’s just what he was.

“Replace me.”

“You asked for my opinion,” the Seeker growls. “Why would you expect it to change?”

“I expect you to keep your word.”

The door creaks open, and Cullen turns to see Aderyn staring between him and Cassandra with a worried gaze, and he almost crumbles. Could he really give up on everything, on her, just to fade into oblivion?

_He could._

“Forgive me,” he breathes, moving past her, and dragging himself away.

The stillness of his office holds even less answers than it did before he left it, the opened blue vial mocking him from his desk.

Maker, why couldn’t he just _do it_. Just drain the liquid once and for all, and end this agony.

Why was it so hard for him to just admit the fact that he was wrong? That this selfish need for freedom would cost more lives than just his own? Why did he think that this silly notion that he deserved a better future would ever be more important than duty?

He deserved _nothing_.

Maker damn him. He doesn’t even deserve to be alive when so many are not. Doesn’t deserve redemption when he abetted injustice with closed eyes. Doesn’t deserve freedom when so many were not because of his zealotry.

Why did he think he deserved anything else but exactly what was happening to him?

The blue vial seems to glow in tacit agreement, the song drumming in his ears, beckoning him back to its grasp.

Take it and do more. Take it and accept your fate.

Take it, and forget that you are dying.

He throws the box with all his waning strength against the door, the carefully controlled rage and fear breaking from his chest in a deafening howl.

It smashes against the wall, crumbling to the floor in a broken mess of glass and wooden splinters—and nearly taking Aderyn’s head along with it.

“Maker’s breath!” he pants, horrified. “I-I didn’t hear you enter, I-“ He can’t look at her, can’t bear her fear, her disappointment. “Forgive me,” he begs again, but expects nothing of the sort. Forgiveness seems so absurd now.

Still, his body involuntary takes one step closer to her, seeking her comfort. But his legs fail under him, and he has to lean against the table, all strength gone, chest heaving with sickness and shame. He sags into his chair, hides his head in his hands humiliated. Waits for her to walk away from him.

But Aderyn comes closer, her hands pulling his away from his face. “Are you going to be all right?” she asks, kneeling to be on eye-level with him.

“Yes,” he sighs, some small part of him still trying desperately not to fail in her eyes. “I- I don’t know.” He hates that he sounds scared, hates that she has to see him this way, broken and lost. “I’m sorry. I never meant for this to interfere.”

“I know.”

“Promises mean nothing if I cannot keep them,” he whispers, and the words come spilling from him desperately, as if he can’t no longer hold them in his chest. His torture in Kinloch Hold, his deadly blind allegiance in Kirkwall, innocent blood following him wherever he went, clinging to him like a second skin— all of it fall from his lips unbidden. “Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?” he begs.

“Of course I can,” Aderyn says, pushing back the matted hair from his forehead with a gentle touch.

“Don’t,” he groans, breaking his face away. “You should be questioning what I’ve done.”

“Cullen-“

“I thought this would be better—that I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won’t leave me…” he sighs, getting up and moving away from her and whatever undeserved comfort she could offer him. “How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause,” he grunts in disgust. “I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry!”

Maker, he should be taking it.

His body shakes with need and rage and despair, and he punches his bookcase uselessly, the books crumbling to the floor in a sad heap.

_He should be taking it._

“Is this what you want?” Aderyn asks, softly.

And it should be.

Losing himself to the lyrium haze until he disappears sounds like _nothing,_ compared to what others have gone through because of him.

It’s is not atonement he should seek, it’s penance.

He closes his eyes, remembers Bran, the young Templar in Kinloch, perched on the windowsill, holding his hand out to him. Remembers the stillness of the night outside. Remembers how easy it would be to let his body meet the abyss, how the hurt would only last one insignificant moment, compared to the horrors within. Remembers how easy it would be to overlook everything Meredith did, to fall into line, to not have every single person in Kirkwall looking at him with hate and distrust, mages and Templars and citizens alike. To obey and shut up and keep his nose clean, and not have it weighing in his conscience, draining the life from his eyes each day a bit more.

It should be enough for him.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not.

He exhales, shoulders sagging with the weight of his choice. “No.”

He slumps against the wall, all fight gone as he breaks down. “These memories have always haunted me; If they become worse, if I- If I cannot endure this…”

But Aderyn, just places a warm, steady hand on his chest, and her voice is strong and her eyes are kind when she says, “You can.”

And, Maker, he will try. What future can there be outside of the Order if he doesn’t try?

He will die trying.

 

* * *

 

It has to get worse before it gets better.

But, fuck, it gets _impossible_ , before it gets worse.

He thought the shivers and nausea and cravings he had had so far were awful, but they were nothing compared to this.

His body shakes against the bed, and his sweat soaks the covers. He can feel his muscles curling over themselves, twisting in uncontrollable spasms in one moment, a dead weight in the next. His stomach refuses everything, and he gets used to the stench of his own vomit clinging to him. His hands are freezing, and the pads of his fingers crack and bleed, and he can’t warm them no matter how much he tries. Though his chest is naked, he still feels his armor restraining him, pinning him down to the bed. There are moments when he thinks he is going blind, the spots in his vision taking over, and moments when the song is so deafening in his ears that he wants to cry. He aches, and he heaves, and he begs.

But he is not alone.

Cassandra comes with a cool cloth, mopping up the dampness in his forehead, taking his bad mood all in stride. Leliana keeps him informed of the goings in the Keep whenever he is lucid enough to understand her—and even when he isn’t. Josephine arranges for quietness in Skyhold, sending most unessential personnel away on one quest or another. Bull and Blackwall and a few senior soldiers share the brunt load of Cullen’s tasks, and Dorian and Viviene dive into research, trying to come up with salves and reparative potions to try and lessen the effects of withdrawal. Varric reads him a chapter or two from his latest novel, swearing a barely-cognizant Cullen into secrecy when he reveals just who the real villain of the tale is. Solas offers to guide him during his nightmares in the fade, and though Cullen can’t remember ever seeing the elf in his dreams, the night terrors ease, a bit. Cole pops in and out in his bedside, bringing him small trinkets that remind him of home—one perfect yellow daisy stem, a fine stick (fit for a pretend-Templar blade) and a small apple tart, just like his mom used to make on long winter nights, to make the cold more bearable.  Someone manages to make Sera lay off her pranks—Cole tells him she thought a surprise tattoo would cheer him up, somehow.

And through it all, Aderyn. With kind smiles, and gentle hands. Helping him drink her lemongrass tea; watching the night sky through his caved in roof, and telling him the stories her father told her about the stars; singing him entrancing songs in a long-lost language, lulling him softly to sleep with the comfort of her voice. A secure port from the storm brewing in his clouded mind.

He is not alone, and when the fever breaks and the fog disperses, he is still alive.

Maker, he is still alive.

And she smiles so brightly and so, so _strong_ …

That he smiles back.

 

* * *

 

Dawn has barely broken, the morning light bathing the Frostbacks in a soft golden cast. The cool wind feels nice against his warm skin, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the crispness of the air. His chest expands to full ability, the muscles in his back stretching pleasantly, and he exhales with a content sigh.

He feels her before she makes a sound.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says, not at all surprised that she had known to find him here, at this hour, leaning against the furthest ledge in the battlements. “When you came to see me… if there’s anything…” he sighs, turning to face her. “This sounded much better in my head,” he smiles self-deprecatingly, rubbing his neck like a school boy with a crush.

“Are you feeling better?” Aderyn asks, blessedly overlooking his bumbling ways.

“I… Yes,” he says, surprised at the answer. He feels good. Okay. Better.

“Is it always that bad?” she asks, taking one step closer, and he wants to kiss away the little worried frown on her forehead.

“The pain comes and goes,” he answers, truthfully. “I should not have pushed myself so far that day.”

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” she says, and he is amazed to discover how effortlessly she can make him smile.

“I am,” he says, moving closer to the ledge. The view here was mesmerizing; he could understand why Aderyn liked to get lost in herself here. “I…” he falters, not really wanting to drag them back to painful memories, but needing to tell her all the same. “I never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden’s Circle. I was… not myself after that. I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me.” He sighs, chancing a look at Aderyn, to find her eyes filled with undeserved—though not unwanted—compassion. “I’m not proud of the man that made me.”

“For what it’s worth,” she says gently, “I like the man you are now.”

He blinks, stunned, and for one second he believes he misheard her. “Even after…?”

“Cullen,” she whispers, her hand reaching to hold his. “I care about you. You have done nothing to change that.”

He feels the warmth of her hands in his, feels it spreading through his whole body like a healing balm, filling some long-forgotten emptiness in his chest. He is amazed at how his body is so attuned to hers, how it reacts to her every move with such… _life_. The fact that he was even capable of feeling like this, of someone being able to make his heart soar, after being _so still_ in his chest for _so long_ … Maker, it was nothing short of a _miracle_.

“Cullen, you know how I feel,” she says, head held high and with a courage he could only dream to ever have. “And I know how you feel. I’m not saying this to pressure you in any way. I just needed to say it.” She gives him a small smile, before turning to go, and everything in him tells him to not let it—happiness, love, _Aderyn_ —slip away from his fingers.

He tightens his grip on her hand, gently pulls her closer, and is forever thankful when she turns to him tentatively; his free hand moves to her face, his thumb caressing her chin in unrestrained reverence. “Could you,’ she begins in a small voice, then swallows heavily, meeting his eyes with hers. “Could you ever think of me as more?”

And, oh Maker, how can he show her his heart? He wants to rip it open from his chest, pulsing with life _for her_. “I could,” he stammers, dazed. “I mean, _I do_ ,” he corrects, willing his nerves to settle, not to ruin this sliver of light in his life. “I do think of you. Always.”

She covers his hand on her face with her free one, “Then what’s stopping you?”

“I didn’t think it was possible,” He never had dared to believe that feeling like this was ever a possibility for him. To feel so afraid and bold and safe and anxious at the same time—and to find that now, in the middle of all this chaos in the world?

“And yet I’m still here,” she smiles with a hopeful shrug.

“So you are. It seems too much to ask… _but I want to_ …”

For the first time, in a very long while, he feels like he’s allowed to _want_ something.

And, maker, _he wants her_.

He closes his eyes, leans in and takes a leap of faith. His hands move to her slender waist to bring her closer; her breath hot on his face, and he nudges her nose with his softly; and then he—

“Commander!”

He feels her eyelashes on his face as she snaps her eyes open, startled; and, Maker, was it too much to ask for a second of peace?

“What?” he barks, turning around to find a soldier—Jim—mumbling something about Leliana’s reports. When he doesn’t answer, the young man lifts his head to him, and something on his face must be _terrifying_ , because the boy stammers something unintelligible before making a hasty retreat.

“Cullen, if you need to-“ Aderyn begins, but his hands move to her face, and he presses against her, finding her lips with his.

And, oh.

Her hands hover in the air for a few seconds, surprised, before holding his arms and pulling him ever closer.

“I believe that was a kiss, Commander,” she smiles when they finally part. “But I can’t be sure… it’s all a blur.”

He chuckles at his eagerness, touching his forehead with hers. “Yes, well…” he says, his hands finding their perfect spot on her hips as he leans for another, gentler kiss.

And he wants _so damn much_ to have something good in his life. He doesn’t want to keep living on borrowed time; he wants _forever_. Just when he had begun to believe that everything was over, he wants this to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but I wanted to post it and be done with it: Cullen's ordeal here was sitting heavily on my chest since I began writing it.  
> God, "Perseverance" is such a draining quest, and so beautifully acted/voiced.   
> Hopefully, things will get better from here; I mean, as well as they can get with Corypheus looming in the horizon, I guess.
> 
> I hope you liked this, and would love to hear your thoughts!


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